


follow you down to the sound

by encroix



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Future, Angst with a Happy Ending, Exes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Reconciliation, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 154,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/encroix/pseuds/encroix
Summary: AU/Future-fic.Luke Patterson doesn’t have many regrets. “But then again,” he says, “I’m a little full of shit.”It's 2038, and Julie and the Phantoms are set to play at their official induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Except Luke and Julie haven't spoken to each other since the Phantoms broke up, and everyone's a little haunted. (Or the bandmates exes saga that nobody needed.)
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson
Comments: 134
Kudos: 322





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how Reggie talks about their being inducted into the Hall of Fame, except one of them has had a falling out and doesn't show? That's what spawned this whole thing.
> 
> I thought this was going to be a one-shot but it is _very not_ so please bear with me. I haven't written anything with chapters since birth.
> 
> I don't play any instruments or know anything about music really, so please don't yell at me if I got something wrong.
> 
> Deeply inspired by _Silver Springs_ , from which the title is bastardized.

_GQ,_ 2038

_Luke Patterson doesn’t have many regrets. “But then again,” he says, “I’m a little full of shit.”_

_At 36, his life and resume leaves little to inspire regret by anyone's definition. It’s been ten months since his record_ Be On Your Way _cracked the top of the Billboard alternative charts, lighting up fans of fusion prog-rock everywhere. And there’s the matter of the Hall of Fame nomination. But he isn’t satisfied, not least because he’s already hungry for the next project. “There’s always new frontiers with music,” he says. “And that’s what I’m searching for. An opportunity to explore, to play around.”_

_We meet at his home away from home at a secluded cabin in Park City that doubles as his private studio. Equipment lines almost every spare inch of space—Moogs, amps, keyboards, a drum kit, and a wall of guitars, including a pristine 1979 Stratocaster that he likes to keep for himself. It’s surprising that he’s still hunting for new frontiers after years of writing, touring, and being on the road, but he shrugs it off with a smile. “There’s always music, and that’s what matters.”_

_2037’s_ Be On Your Way _has already climbed to certified RIAA gold, and critics and fans alike heralded it as his most intimate venture of late. But Patterson doesn’t consider it anything different than what he’s been writing for years. “I’ve never been open about it, but I haven’t hidden it either,” he says. “The history, the stories, they’ve always followed me around.” But it’s been a decade, and everything has finally started to quiet down for him, an adjustment that he welcomes. “The paparazzi, the autograph hounds, they used to be everywhere,” he says. “And now it seems like they don’t remember who I am.”_

_Is that something that bothers him?_

_“I never wanted to be known like that,” he says. “It was my music that I wanted to reach people.”_

_Listening to the title track on the album, it’s easy to connect the Luke of the past with the one now—there are still the loud bass lines and frenetic drum sounds that tear through simplistic verses, the melodramatic flourishes that have earned him fans and detractors alike, the sonic experimentation in his use of theremin and reliance on a backing choir—but nothing moreso than the lyrics that he’s written._

_“People have been reading into my lyrics for years,” he says. “Once they think they know your story, they think they know you. But people bring into it what they want to. Not everything is autobiographical, and not everything is fiction. It’s about straddling the line between the two.” And perhaps his visible life has always been a fiction._

_“A creation,” he corrects. “It’s all somebody’s creation. Your gig outfits, your persona, your music, that’s your creation. But your manager, your label, your executives, they have a hand in creating you too.”_

_Much has been made over the years about his tension against the music business and his excessive demand for control. And while he knows he’s been called obsessive, exacting, primadonnaish, he isn’t fazed by it. “You can’t think about what other people are going to say about you when you get into this business,” he says. “Or maybe you can, I don’t know. But this business is two businesses—there’s entertainment, and there’s making music. If you’re lucky, you can get both at once—make people happy, make yourself happy. But there’s a very small—a tiny, tiny chance that you’ll ever do something like that. And then the rest of the time you have to choose.”_

_By now, it’s become the fulcrum of the story of Luke Patterson, his rise and fall and rise again. And are there any regrets there? He doesn’t answer. Instead he leads us out to the yard. It seems like an attempt at distraction or ritual sacrifice, but no, he's looking for time to answer and tries to kill it by giving us a brief tour. There’s a small shed he uses for his audio mixing work, a large fire pit, and a bean-shaped swimming pool, the kind that seems almost mandatory in every house this size out west. There are guitars waiting for him here as well, and he picks up an acoustic as we chat and starts playing it as his dogs--two rescues named Oogy and Boogie--chase us around.  
_

_Patterson, along with his bandmates, are set to be some of the youngest inductees into the Hall of Fame in its history, but he takes stock of his own trajectory--and their legacy--with mild humor. “I wouldn't say it feels early,” he laughs. “It feels like I’ve been working for this for my whole life. It’s been isolating at times, but it’s rewarding to be able to say that I earned it on my music, my work.”_

_His journey to musical success has been defined by its challenges. We talk briefly about his process of reconciling with his parents, about the rumors that music has driven a wedge in his last string of relationships. (He neither confirms nor denies.) But there’s no ignoring the enormous elephant in the room._

_He wipes his mouth and strums a dissonant chord. “Yeah,” he says, clapping his hand on the strings to still them. “Let’s get it over with.”_

_There can be no conversation about Luke Patterson’s storied career without talking about what got him there—the band that earned him his nomination and made his name._

_Their origins are a well-trod Cinderella story by now: alongside early founding members of the Phantoms—Alexander Mercer and Reginald Peters—Patterson helmed a skate punk outfit called Sunset Curve before meeting lead vocalist Julie Molina in a mix-up over leased studio space, and the rest was musical history._

_Off-stage, they became tabloid history too: from their meteoric rise to the highly publicized romantic and creative partnership between Patterson and Molina that soured, leading to a tense and disruptive run of the European leg of their 2033_ Cassettes and Regrets _tour that later devolved into the band's dissolution. Since the parting of the ways, there has been no end to the relitigation of their legacy: from their solo album diss tracks to the disputes over royalties and masters to the endless tabloid and industry rumors about what exactly went down. The theories range from infidelity, plagiarism, and addiction to ego, a refusal to commit, and creative differences. Choose your own adventure._

 _At times, the legacy of Julie and the Phantoms seems to be more rumor mill than musical greatness. But there is no disputing the weight of their contributions—from the unvarnished early rock gems of_ Crooked Teeth _and_ My Name is Luke _to the country and bluegrass-infused murder ballads on their third album,_ The Reckoning _, to the experimental soul and Motown infusions on 2029's_ Polaris. _Between the Hall of Fame announcement and the latest round of nominations for_ Be On Your Way, _has there been any time to reflect on his journey with the Phantoms?_

_“It was a really…fast time for us all,” he says, pausing to choose his words. “Things were happening so quickly that we were barely thinking about what we were doing. We just thought of ourselves as a team, a family. We thought that it would never end, so we never planned for it.”_

_While Mercer and Peters have since reformed another version of Sunset Curve—with The Journeymen’s Sallie Elmer as lead vocalist—Patterson and Molina have stayed solo. Patterson has stuck close to his alternative roots, preferring the club scene to the stadiums he used to sell out with the Phantoms, while Molina is indisputably one of the biggest superstars of a generation. It’s been five years since their last performance together as a band, and since the Phantoms’ lead singers have spoken to one another. Though he understands how Phantoms fans all over the world are hoping for a reunion, Patterson suspects that there’ll be no return to touring or anything else after the show. “The past is in the past,” he says. “I can understand how it feels if our music is part of your life, but to us—we were so young when we got started. And some things that die stay buried.”_

_It’s the kind of answer that only Luke Patterson can give. But does he feel any pressure to reproduce the kind of chemistry that once defined their stage presence?_

_“No," he says. "That's just not who we are anymore. And I don't think anyone coming to see us expects anything other than good music and a good show. I know she’s a professional. And so am I. And that's something we can deliver."  
_

He knows how this is supposed to go. A stop at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame isn't about the honor as much as it is about everything that it brings: a chance at a victory tour, a greatest hits album, photo opps, press junkets, a chance to talk non-stop about everything that he's been doing to sell it in as many avenues as possible.

 _There's a reason the 'business' is there in 'music business,' kid,_ his manager, Michael, likes to tell him. Michael's the kind of guy that could have been on the Sopranos, a fifty-to-eighty-something old-school Italian dude out of New Jersey who's managed more acts than any man his age should be able to do. Luke's one of his favorites (he says, though Luke figures he tells all his clients that), and the Hall of Fame is a chance to start laying more groundwork for his future.

 _I've got time,_ Luke says.

 _Forty's no spring chicken,_ Michael says. _And gold isn't platinum._

_I'm thirty-six. I'm not dead._

_Yet_ , Michael says.

Since the news of their nomination, he's spent more time thinking about the Phantoms than he has since he left. It's odd to listen to their old songs looping through on the radio again when he hasn't sounded like that in years, like feeling the tremor of a limb that isn't there anymore. Phantom limb, they call it, because he's never been able to get a break from the universe in his life.

Michael thinks that he should try to write a song for the ceremony. “A new _Julie and the Phantoms_ song, Luke? Think of how much you could get. The royalties on that would be huge.”

He doesn’t think he even knows what a Julie and the Phantoms song sounds like anymore. At the beginning, they were all Sunset Curve songs, repurposed, reshaped with Julie’s light and Julie’s voice until they belonged to all of them. And then, they were always writing with one another, the two of them in tiny rooms with their heads pressed together, sharing music and notes and ideas in every spare second they had until it felt like they were the same mind.

And everything he wrote after them was about writing himself away from it, from their sound, giving himself the distance that he needed to separate his music from hers. 

“She isn’t going to be there,” Michael says. “Don’t worry.”

“What are you talking about? She’s the lead singer of the band.”

“She’s going to be there, but she isn’t going to be there, Luke. You get on stage, you fake smile, you sing some old songs, and you and me both earn our commission, right? Everyone goes home happy.”

He can kind of understand what Michael means. Nothing about these shows is real. They’re all fluff, meant to rake in viewers and ratings and ad money, with the bonus of a vanity kick from seeing themselves lined up next to their heroes. But when he thinks about seeing her again, he gets a kick in his stomach that lasts longer than it should. Because it isn’t as if he’s stopped seeing her around either. Not since he left. Not international superstar Julie Molina, making faces at him from the cover of _Vogue_ , smiling through another cringe late-night tv segment, or singing in her crooning breathy voice over the PA system at the supermarket. Not pop diva Julie Molina, linked with this actor, then this one, darting through appearances at the awards shows in dresses that cost more than he makes in a year.

If he's being honest, he doesn't recognize that Julie as Julie. She's too glamorous, too glossy--she looks _good_ but in the way that all Hollywood celebrities look good: a mixture of airbrushing and make-up, tailored clothes, and a perennially toned, tanned, and slim figure. He misses his-- _their,_ the old Julie with the dark circles under her eyes, the oversized sweaters, the frizzy hair. On tv, Julie always seems to be laughing the kind of hollow laugh that he hated hearing towards the end. An empty sound to fill in the story of her endless joy when he knows that's not how she's feeling.

He doesn't like to remember what it was like to live like that, shunting every bad mood and jagged edge away until the cameras disappeared. Like the time they were leaving a late-night studio session in London and found themselves surprised by a pack of cameramen, flashbulbs firing before they had a chance to turn their heads away. Like the time they found reporters hunting through their trash for things to write about.

Whenever it got really bad, he would disappear for days at a time into the studio, writing alone until he could clear his head.

 _It isn't going to be like this forever,_ she told him.

 _This isn't music, Jules_ , he replied. _This is a circus._

 _We'll always have the music if we have each other_ , she said. _As long as we're together, we can do it. I know we can._

He thought he could put up with anything for them, for her, for their music.

But after a certain amount of time and attention, it never was about the music anymore. It couldn’t be. People didn’t come to their shows because they loved the songs, but because they loved them—Luke and Julie and everything they were separately or together. He still remembers the letters she used to get, long scribbled rants about how she was using him and abusing him, how she didn’t deserve him, the veiled threats.

And at the end, he stopped pretending. 

At the end, he made sure to show up, plug his guitar in, play his parts, and leave everything else behind.

  
If he's being honest, he still has her number in his phone. Or, he thinks, what used to be her number. He hasn't dialed it in years, hasn't really spoken or messaged her since the last time they stood on a stage together, but it's still saved under the name he doesn't have any right to call her anymore. But every time he remembers that she’s there, he can’t seem to make himself get rid of it. It’s too much time and too much weight, he thinks. They sunk so much of themselves into each other that erasing her feels disrespectful to the things that she did, the ways that she helped him to become a better person.

Alex and Reggie tell him that he can’t keep living like this, that it’s like keeping a ghost in the house. There are boxes full of the letters they wrote one another when they were just friends and hanging out on the road, the songs they sat down to write together, the gifts, the doodles that she left them—all of them—whenever she was feeling bored or restless. All of it sits in his attic or his garage, still sealed in boxes from the last time he moved. Some days, he thinks about those early tour days and wishes that he had done anything to stop their rise while it started. If only they could have stuck closer to home, to scrapping for the small gigs at the malls and the evening theaters where no one knew who they were. Those were the best ones they ever did, he thinks. The ones where they were playing for one another as much as they were playing for the crowd. 

Maybe it would have been healthier to do what he did when he was seventeen and burn everything out in the backyard, but every time he thinks about doing anything with it--moving it, giving it away--he spends too long thinking about her, and decides to put it off for another day.

It's Alex and Reggie who tell him over lunch that he's being ridiculous, that he's behaving like a teenager. They like to remind him that they're all pushing forty while he's acting like he's still twenty and playing off-key power ballads from his garage.

Like they're not the ones running Sunset Curve on nostalgia.

“Don’t hate us ‘cause you ain’t us,” Reggie crows.

“Especially when we’re not the reason you’re upset,” Alex says.

He's always hated how honest Alex can be sometimes.

"It can't be Sunset Curve without me," he says, rolling his eyes. "I _started_ that band."

"It's not yours anymore, old man," Reggie says. "There's a new sheriff in town."

Alex chuckles. "And if you think that you can distract us by changing the subject..."

"You hyped for the Hall of Fame thing?" Reggie says.

Luke stabs at a piece of egg on his plate, too wet for his liking, and pops it in his mouth. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm hyped. Next to Bruce, man? C'mon."

"I hope we still remember the words to our own songs," Reggie says. "It's been a long time since I've played any of those."

"What are you talking about?" Alex says. "We do _Long Weekend_ every night."

"You better start trying to memorize those lyrics now," Reggie says, aiming his fork at Luke. "I remember how you are. You're going to start singing _I'm Coming Out_ for the bridge of _Finally Free_."

That night, he takes a seat at the keyboard, switches it on, and thinks about trying to write again. The keyboard hums alive with a soft whine of feedback, and he steps on a pedal, playing through a scale.

_You’re going to try piano now?_

It’s funny how he can hear her so clearly sometimes, how her laugh, her voice, her whisper can cut through all of the noise in a room in a second.

If he thinks about it (which he doesn’t), he misses her laugh more than he misses the old shows, more than he misses the songwriting sessions, the private planes, the booked out hotel room floors that the four of them used to destroy. But the thing with living on principle is that you have to commit to it.

His fingers slide down an octave, and he tests a chord.

He can hear her—the ghost of her, the memory of her ten years ago—giggling, feel her lean her weight against him just to touch him. _Trying to replace me or something?_

He runs through the chords, scrambling to remember the words at the back of his head. It’s been years, but muscle memory loops in and his fingers find the keys before he can think about what he’s doing.

_together i think that we can make it_   
_come on, let’s run_

He still sings the harmony.

  
Her voice comes through the clearest when he tries to write, heckling him from behind his shoulder as he tries to push her out of his head. Maybe it’s because he’s never written songs like that with anyone else before or since—not Alex, not Reggie, not any of the multi-award winning songwriters he’s collaborated with, not any of the girlfriends he had after—and he doesn’t know what it was about the two of them that made it so special. Sometimes it felt like they could carve harmonies out of nothing, that she knew the melody that was floating around his head even before he knew what chords he wanted to play.

Some days he sits at the piano and he can picture her so clearly, the way she chewed on the end of the pencil while she thought, the tap of her toe against the floor as she tried to figure out the chords. Julie always started with the chord progressions even though she lived for the melodies— _you can’t figure out what the song is until you know the mood, luke_ —and they used to spend hours running through rhythms and arrangements before they ever wrote a word.

Everyone likes to think that it was easy between the two of them, that because they had some kind of a connection when they were performing, it meant that they never had to work. But that's all he remembers--the work. How she would slam her fingers on the keys whenever she was frustrated, how they would lay down together on the floor when they were trying to think themselves out of a rut, how she'd snap at him when he was tuning too much. She always pushed him to try to get everything down on paper even though he kept everything going in his head, orchestrating and rearranging before he could ever try a note.

It’s those hours he loved the most. The greasy bags full of burgers and fries, the exhaustion in her eyes, her relentlessness to run through it just one more time. Her smile whenever they finally got it right. Or whenever they played through a song for the first time and she cackled while he stumbled through all of the lyrics that they’d just written.

 _I don’t know how you can be so bad at words you wrote your-damn-self_ , she teased. _There’s six words in this line, Luke. You can remember six words._

When he tells Reggie and Alex that he’s thinking about writing a new Julie and the Phantoms song, they both scoff.

“Can’t write that without us,” Alex says.

“No,” Reggie says. “Can’t write that without…”

Alex flashes him a glare, and Reggie stops short as they both make a show out of clearing their throats. Reaching for his glass, Reggie gulps down half his glass of water with a shrug of apology.

Luke rolls his eyes. Some days he wonders how it is that they can be the two people he considers the closest family in this world.

“I used to write on my own all the time,” he says.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “For Sunset Curve.”

“Whose idea was this anyway?” Reggie says. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t yours.”

“Mikey,” Alex says, snapping his fingers. “It’s got Mikey written all over it. Get that royalty money.”

“Cha-ching,” Reggie chimes.

“So what the hell have you got?” Alex says. 

“Yeah,” Reggie says. “You want to show us your grand Phantoms symphony here?”

Luke shrugs. 

“You don’t have anything,” Alex says. 

“I have three chords,” Luke says.

“So nothing.”

“Less than nothing,” Reggie adds.

“Shut up,” Luke says. “Wait until I play it for you.”

He thumbs a guitar pick between his teeth, and reaches for one of the acoustics against the wall, fussing with the tuning heads. Strumming the chords, he rolls through the verse, humming the scraps of melody that he’s started to cobble together. 

When he stops, Reggie and Alex share a look. There’s a beat of silence before Reggie leans forward and says, “The fuck is this shit, man?”

Luke growls. “It’s a ballad.”

“You’re writing a _ballad_ for our _Rock and Roll Hall of Fame_ induction?” Alex repeats.

“You need us,” Reggie says. “Or therapy. I don’t know. We haven’t written shit like that since we were playing out of the garage.”

Alex laughs.

“You try writing this,” Luke says. “It’s been years. I don’t even remember what we used to sound like.”

Reggie grins, sliding his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Better than that, that’s for sure.”

  
  
  


Finding the sound is harder than he expected. It used to live inside of him back then, a spirit possessing him whenever he called it to, and now he finds himself struggling to get back in the groove. Part of him wants to say that it’s because of how he’s matured as an artist, how the sound that he had back then was all early mistakes, doing too much, layering on too many noises, fussing until it was unlistenable. But maybe he doesn’t want to think about what it means to try to be writing them without her, writing her part without her.

He tries looping part of it through the vocoder, tries messing with the instrumentation, the rhythm, the phrasing. It still feels too hard, not as lyrical or as melodic as the songs they used to write. Whenever he would get like this when they were writing, she would drag him away to other sights, other things. _You just need your hands to be busy_ , she’d tell him, and they’d go and do something like the batting cages or spend the rest of the afternoon in his bed.

 _You try so hard to force things when you want them_ , she told him once. _It can be effortless. You just have to learn how to relax. Let things come to you._

And she had been the opposite, hadn’t she? Even when her mom had gotten too sick to recover and she slipped away into the shell of herself, hiding from music for over a year, she trusted that time would unlock something inside of her that she didn’t understand. But she’s always believed in the trick of timing like that. He’s used to working for that kind of belief, having to argue himself into rooms, into hearts, into meetings that he had no place being in. Maybe it makes him quick to push, too aware of timelines, of the odds.

With a sigh, he abandons the piano and heads for the kitchen instead. It had once been her favorite room in any house, she confessed to him once, because it was the brightest, all of the windows facing out, everything warm and soothing and full of comfort. Kitchens were built to nourish in a way that no other rooms in a house were meant to do. He had joked that she liked to be around sweets at any given moment in a day, but standing at his kitchen island, staring out at the black of the night through his kitchen window, he can hear the lilting start of a melody.

Pouring himself a glass of juice, he hums softly to himself under his breath. His fingers drum against the kitchen counter, the soft beat of rhythm anchoring the melody. And it builds from there, the stutter of notes into a layered four-part harmony.

_limitless the days stretching out to sea  
hearing the breeze whip against the light  
i know you never really believed me  
but i was only ever trying to make it right_

_taking on water, trying even harder  
steady the course but losing the way  
you took the mainsail, climbed like a fire  
the beacon that almost made me stay_

The first time he plays it through for Reggie and Alex, they’re fussing with the dogs, with each other’s instruments, with the cushions on his couch. But when he hits the rising triplets into the chorus, they lean forward and really listen, and it’s the first time he has a sense that he’s finding his voice back.

“You’re serious about this?” Alex asks, when he finishes the chorus.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I mean, you’re serious about sending this?”

“Well, it’s not done,” he says. “Does it sound like us?”

Reggie glances at Alex. “Yeah,” he says, drawing out the word. “I think it sounds like us. Maybe with a little too much new Luke for my liking, but there’s enough bones there of the old Phantoms sound.”

Alex snorts. “When did you get to be a critic?”

Reggie grins. “I have many talents,” he says. “Just because they go unnoticed whenever I’m working with the two of you…”

"You sure this is the song that you want to do, man?" Alex says.

Luke shrugs. "It's all water under the bridge, right?"

"Yeah," Alex says. "Right."

They spend the rest of the night retooling the little that he has, Alex building out the second verse and Reggie fixing the rhythm and the timing. They play with the levels, with the noise bristling through the amp. It isn’t clean, the guitar part dirty in a way that makes him giddy. It should have grit to it, something grungy to cut with the crisp melodies Julie was always known for.

That night, as they hit the fourth hour of tinkering, Alex hauls them both out to the fire pit for a break. It’s not the right weather for it yet, still a touch of late summer in the air, but they start a fire anyway and sit in its thick heat, trying to avoid thinking about the song and sipping at beers.

"She's doing okay, you know," Alex says.

Luke shrugs. He's never given much thought to how they must stay in touch with her, know more about her life now than he does. "All right," he says.

Alex raises his hands defensively, and takes a long pull from his beer. "You haven't written a song like that in a while, that's all I'm saying."

"You're saying too much," Luke says.

"I think you miss playing with us," Reggie says.

Luke kicks at the leg of his chair. "Shut up."

"You remember that show in—god, where was it, like the Russian countryside or something..." Reggie says.

"You're thinking of Stockholm," Alex says, pointing at him. "Your geography fucking sucks."

"I don't want to think about the show in Stockholm," Luke says, snorting into his drink. "Reggie, you were sick for like...three days, and we had to perform right next to you."

"At least he didn't throw up on you," Alex says, pointing to himself. "Like some other people I know."

"God, and Jules running around trying to ask the Swedish pharmacies about Pepto-Bismol in her horrible Swedish," Luke laughs.

The memory of her kicks up into the air, and they shift in their seats, waiting for it to settle back down.

"I missed playing with you guys," Reggie says.

Alex snaps his hand against his arm. "You play with me all the time."

'You know what I mean."

Luke drains the rest of his beer and sets the glass bottle down beside his chair. Looking into the fire, he soaks up the dry heat, the noise of insects at night, the distant sound of cars. He doesn't miss much about living in California, but sometimes he misses the noise, the chatter of always being around other people.

"You _try_ talking to her recently?" Alex asks, pointedly.

He waves his hand.

"When you play that song for the first time," Reggie says, "It'll be an icebreaker for sure."

“I wrote it for us,” he says, gesturing at the two of them. “I wrote it for _all of us._ ”

“Mmhmm,” Reggie and Alex hum.

Luke claps his hands against his jeans. “I don’t think we’re getting anything else done tonight,” he says. “You're welcome to crash if you want, but I think we should definitely try to get a track down before Monday.”

Alex forces a grin. “Now I remember why I don’t like working with you.”

“It’s easier when you’re in charge, isn’t it, Alex,” Reggie says. “They don’t know what we had to put up with.”

Luke laughs. “You want something to eat? Or you want to keep whining?”

Reggie stands and gives him a playful shove. “Feed me, Seymour,” he says.

No matter what people think, he hasn’t actually written her many songs. They wrote songs together—they always had—but most of them were stories of other people for other people. The things they wrote for one another were personal, more likely to be tucked away with the other keepsakes collecting dust in his boxes upstairs than pressed into vinyl and sung thousands of times around the world.

But he did write her one once.

Even—or especially—when things were getting bad at the end, when he couldn’t find the words to talk to her about what he was thinking or what he wanted, when the only language left to the two of them was the music that they were working on together, he struggled to do it. He remembers recording it as a memo on his phone, a crackly demo with too much static and pop, his foot bouncing against the floor as he tried to keep his voice steady.

He can’t remember if it was an apology or a confession, but it was quiet, speak-singing more than any actual melody, the guitar so close to the mic that it seemed to vibrate through the tinny speaker.

But what he remembers more than anything is the weight of the emotion on his voice, the crack and tremor of it running low underneath the guitar, the exhaustion coloring the edges of his sound. He doesn’t even know if he ever played it back before he sent it. He doesn’t even know if she ever listened to it.

He doesn’t need to.

All he knows is that he wanted to try to save something.

(He couldn't. He didn't.

But he tried.)

A couple of days later, with a weak but passable third verse and bridge, they head into his studio and lay the demo in three and a half hours with Reggie singing Julie’s part. It’s a little too high for him, his voice thin as he strains for the high register, but they feel good about the rest of it-- _the Phantoms sound_ , Mike likes to call it--with the dramatic drums, the steady bass, the riffing between the high and low ends of the range on his guitar.

He takes the rough cut and mixes it himself, running copies for each of them, for Mike, for their managers, and one for her.

He sends the file to her manager with a brief note explaining what it is, and leaves it at that.

He lets it go.

If it weren’t now and if it weren’t him, she might be proud of him, he thinks, for finally taking her advice. But it isn't then, and they're not _them_ , and none of it matters much anyway.

All it is is just another show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything that people make fun of Luke here for is because of everything they made fun of Charlie for in some of the cast press things they've done.
> 
> Any song lyrics you don't recognize, I probably wrote.
> 
> I also gave Reggie and Alex last names because they needed them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I'm sorry for the slow updates (and they will probably get slower as this goes on). I've been a bit perfectionist about how these chapters turn out and I just want to make sure they turn out right. This is becoming a monster, but in the best way.
> 
> This chapter is fairly non-linear, but I hope you'll be able to track the timeline okay.

She’s surprised by how much he sounds the same. She thinks the years should have been crueler about the changes somehow—his voice deeper, huskier, more changed—but maybe neither of them has changed as much as she once imagined. She’s heard the news, of course, but it hasn’t been on the top of her mind. Julie and the Phantoms making the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is just another digestible sound bite to grin through now, thanking her way through endless congratulations, through rooms full of old men who tell her just how much their families, their daughters, are fans, while they try to stare through her velour jumpsuits.

He sends a tape to her manager because of course he does, because Luke has never prioritized convenience over the purity of the sound, and it's too easy to picture him sitting in his studio, chewing on the end of a guitar pick and mixing for hours, waffling between changes because he can’t make a decision about what sounds better.

He never could make a choice when it came down to it. Until she made him. 

There’s a file that gets passed through to her phone because she doesn’t believe in carrying around all that baggage—that _weight_ —of all the analog machines he loved to play with. She’s always looked forward, for better or for worse, and it’s seen her through bigger things than what went down with the two of them. But that doesn’t mean that she likes to think about what happened.

  
To say that things ended on a bad note would be an oversimplification. At the end, they started off bad, and they kept getting worse.

She can still remember seeing him for the first time after—well, after everything—in their old manager’s office, his arms crossed over his chest, slouching in his favorite pair of blue jeans and an old t-shirt, waiting for them like nothing had happened. Acting like he hadn’t left in the middle of their tour, disappeared without a word to her—to anybody—for a month so that he could…do what? Fuck off? Find himself? She still doesn’t know. She doesn’t care.

Rhea, their manager at the time, sat behind her desk, waving them in while she and Alex and Reggie stayed stuck in the doorway, sputtering for words, glancing at each other for signs of what to do. She had been so angry that heat licked along the base of her spine, her cheeks warming with everything that she couldn’t say.

“Before you go and get all upset,” Rhea said, “We have it all figured out.”

 _It_ being the tour. _It_ being the dozens of angry calls they’d gotten from promoters and bookers about what happened on their tour. _It_ being the journalists, the international music press, the scraps of their reputation.

“He had a moment of temporary insanity,” Rhea said, cracking open a can of seltzer on her desk. “He had a death in the family and was seized by grief, and went to play dutiful son—nephew, cousin, whatever—for a month. We can get you on an apology tour on late-night, morning shows, yadda yadda, start the rehab, and you’ll be back on the road in six months. Easy. Takes longer to have a baby.”

Julie sucked in a breath and felt her chest press in on her.

She opened her mouth, and nothing came out.

She looked him right in the eye, and nothing came out.

And he was still Luke, still decent enough to look embarrassed, to shut up and let Rhea do all the talking, but not decent enough to look her in the eye and say a single thing in his defense.

He stared at the carpet instead, his right leg bouncing against the floor, desperate to avoid looking at any of them. Ashamed, maybe.

So she did the only thing she could think to do. She turned on her heel and walked out.

  
She asks to be alone when she listens to the track. As alone as she can ever be, anyway. 

Tonight, alone means the fifty-seventh floor of a high-rise in the most crowded city in the country, from a dingy corner of a green room where she’s waiting to make a late-night appearance to promote her latest album, with only a PA to keep her company. Pitchfork hasn’t been very nice about the album, but it's not like they've ever been happy with her since she abandoned the rest of the band. (That’s the word they like to use—abandoned—like the boys weren’t the ones who also agreed to leave.)

She hasn’t done anything for herself in years—not when herself now includes her personal assistant, her security, and a team full of her closest handlers that double for friends—but this is something she can’t bear to do while people watch her. Listening to Luke—listening to the guys—has always belonged to the realm of her life that existed before when she could still have things to keep to herself. She knows how quickly news can leak, how even the sturdiest built walls can crumble with the gentlest touch. And she doesn’t want to field the questions, the curious looks masquerading as concern, the touches to her arm to see if she really wants to go through with it.

To be honest, she doesn’t know what she expects to hear. The messy noise of their first album, maybe, or something like the immature album Luke put out right after their split when his sound ran hard in the opposite direction of what he left, bordering on hair metal, full of tinny synths, complicated drumming, and shrill falsetto screaming. He seemed pretty clear about where their music ought to sit after they separated, and she was happy to take what belonged to her. Melodic piano, dense production, the layered harmonies, poppy hooks that they exploited for top 40 crossover. 

Through her earbuds, he sounds like he’s singing right up against the mic, his voice a croon close to her ear. It’s softer than she expects, softer than he usually likes to start, but when the guys come in with their crunchy runs, she smiles in spite of herself. It sounds like the first time she found them in her studio, sweating in the summer heat, crashing through their bridges with a stumbling finesse.

Luke, rocking on his feet, banging his head in time to the beat.

On the track, he sings about a lighthouse and a beacon, about losing the light to a late autumn storm. He sings about taking on water.

She sits back against the firm couch in the green room and reaches for one of the plastic cups of champagne, draining it in a single go. 

“You doing all right, Miss Molina?” the PA asks.

The PAs aren’t supposed to talk to the talent, she knows, but the kid looks barely out of high school, all lanky height and awkwardness, twitchy with excitement. 

She smiles. “Just a little dry,” she says.

  
That time, he ran after her.

That time, in the hallway of their manager’s office building, he chased after her and took her hand and asked her to stop.

That time, he cared enough to try.

What she remembers is the heaviness of the emotion in her throat as his fingers caught hers. What she remembers is seeing them reflected in the walls of frosted glass that separated all of the offices, their silhouettes bleeding together. What she remembers is being surprised by her own exhausted, distorted reflection, stunned all over again by the weight of all the time passed for the first time since he disappeared. 

A month they waited.

A month they waited to hear from him.

A month of holding her breath against the possibility of bad news. A month of grief, and the taste of ashes in her mouth, and battling back the memory of their last night together. A month of blaming herself, only to find him standing in their manager’s office in his own clothes, under his own power, barely looking guilty, when she had spent the last month heartbroken.

He pulled at her hand. “I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, and she let out a ragged exhale that shook her entire body. “All I’m asking is that you just come back inside and listen.”

“Listen to what?” she said. "To _who_?"

“To Rhea,” he said, dropping her hand.

When she turned around to face him, he hadn't moved, swaying on his feet inches in front of her, their noses nearly close enough to touch.

“I know that I fucked up,” he said.

She let out a hard exhale. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t right now.”

He swallowed hard, and nodded mutely.

“You have no idea what it’s been like,” she said.

His finger traced the outside of her hand. “So tell me.”

How could she? How could she tell him about the terror and the rage that gripped her for those weeks, the tightness of breath in her chest that would surprise her in the middle of the night? How could she tell him about losing every memory of him, of them, to those sidelong moments of fear, to those visions of him dying somewhere, lost and alone? She could barely find the words to tell him now how she still lived in the long shadow of those weeks, how it carved her down to the raw edges of her nerves like she hadn't felt since the days after her mother’s passing.

So she didn’t.

She wanted to tell him instead about the quiet stun of the mornings each day when she would wake up to find his side of the bed empty, her arms reaching out to hold nothing. She wanted to tell him instead about those early days when she would come home—come back—from wherever she was and operate on autopilot, calling out to him and realizing all over again the emptiness of her own apartment. She wanted to tell him that she had forgotten what it felt like to have his warmth in her bed, or the solid weight of his body anchoring hers in the middle of the night. She wanted to tell him that what she had kept instead—what he had left her with—were those weeks of not knowing, of loneliness, of learning that, whatever he had chosen, he had chosen to keep it from her and go through it alone.

That he had chosen for her—for _them_ —to go through it alone too.

She wanted to ask him why he came back at all.

Instead, she sighed and said, “If we do this, it’s over.”

He blinked at her. “What?” 

“If we do this,” she said, pointing down the hall, “If we go back to being _Julie and the Phantoms_ , then that’s it. We’re _Julie and the Phantoms_.”

“What are you talking about?”

She glanced past him at the wall and felt her heart twist inside her chest. “I can’t do this again,” she said. “I can’t go through that again.”

“Jules,” he said.

She closed her eyes, hissing with annoyance. “Stop,” she said, softly. “It’s been a month, Luke. Stop.” 

“Julie,” he said. “You have to believe me. I never meant to hurt you. Just give me a chance…”

When she glanced back up at him, he stepped closer, his hands reaching out, hovering just above her skin. As if he could take her into his arms and erase all of the lost time.

“A chance for what?” she said. 

He risked a touch, his hand sliding against her arm. “To say I’m sorry.”

She took a step back. “Sorry for what?”

“Julie,” he said.

“For fucking off without a word or for leaving us high and dry without you in Prague?”

He didn’t answer.

"For leaving me behind, or for throwing the band under the bus?"

"You have to believe that I didn't want to hurt you _—any_ of you—"

“You don't owe me an explanation anymore," she said. "I know that music’s the most important thing in your life. I know that's why you came back. You made that really clear."

“You—”

She shook her head, sniffing. “And you’re right—the music we make is really…a good thing,” she continued, talking over him. “The rest of it…let’s just—let it go.”

“Will you listen to what I have to say?” he said. “Please?”

She met his gaze, her eyes hard. “No,” she said, quietly. “No, you listen to me this time. We don’t have to talk about it. I think it’s probably better if we don’t. But it’s up to you. You tell me what you want.”

“I want you.”

Her laugh was quiet. “God.”

“Julie, all I’m asking…”

“The _band_ , Luke,” she said. “If you want the band back together, then the band can be back together. But we’re done. Think about it.”

Wiping at her eyes, she marched past him and back into Rhea’s office, letting the door click shut behind her.  


  
It’s a song he wrote for the induction ceremony, that was what her manager said. But as she plays it through for the second time, she notices all of the little quirks and hallmarks of his songwriting and she knows it's more than that. Luke’s never written a pure vanity project a day in his life. Everything about his music is so earnest that it hurts her to think about sometimes, the way that his heart bleeds fresh onto everything that he writes.

“He’s doing it for the royalties,” Amy said, rolling her eyes. “We need to get you in a room with them so they don’t cut you out.”

Julie groaned. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “ _Runners on First_ just came out. You don’t need to pick a fight.”

"That's why you hired me," Amy said. "To pick these fights."

Amy had been the easiest decision she’d ever made.

She came on recommendation from one of her songwriter friends, thoroughly vetted by Flynn, and turned out to be the kind of manager who cut her teeth in the ‘80s power-suit-with-shoulder-pads days. When the fights over the masters had gotten rough, Julie had been thankful every day for how much of a shark Amy could be.

Between Amy and the worldwide tours, the series of platinum albums, the movie residuals, and everything else, Julie hadn’t had to consider money in a real way in a long time. No matter how the press tries to paint her, all she ever wanted to do was to buy her dad and her tia their own homes, set up Carlos’s college fund, and make sure that she had enough to be comfortable.

All she cared about was the music. Everything else was about making sure she could keep the music.

“Let me talk to the Hall of Fame people, and to Mike and Jamie. You’re the most important person in the band, Julie. You know it, they know it, and I know it. Don’t let the boys take all the credit.”

  
If she thinks about it, she doesn’t remember much of what they decided in Rhea’s office that afternoon. She remembers flipping through the pages of their contract, remembers them talking about how to rehab the image they’d shattered with the cancellation of the tour. She remembers Rhea feeding Luke lines for reporters about what he’d been doing when they caught him in Jamaica, remembers her shouting at assistants to set up press conferences, morning shows, late-night appearances, anything to convince people that the Phantoms were back and stronger than ever.

She remembers sitting there with her head nearly pressed to her knees, nauseous with the emotion of it, and in no position to think about anything other than the fact that this was her job. This had been something she agreed to do.

Alex sulked in the corner the entire time, listening with half an attention span and glaring at Luke across the room. 

Even Reggie—who never held a grudge, who never got involved—sat against the windowsill and scowled.

“All right,” Rhea said, standing from her desk. “I don’t know what the fuck happened, but this”—she said, waving her hands at the wall of space between the three of them and him—“has to be fixed before you show up on television.”

“So that’s it?” Alex said. “He’s back? Just like that?”

Rhea tried a smile, all teeth. “Yes,” she said. “Isn’t life wonderful.”

“It’s a real fairy tale,” Alex said.

“Alex,” Luke said.

Alex held up his hand. “I just have some questions,” he said.

“Which are?” Rhea said.

“What exactly are the consequences here?” he said. “I mean, some of us managed to be professional and showed up for our contractually-obligated tour appearances. If that’s lost income, then I don’t think that should fall on all of us equally.”

“Man, seriously?” Luke said.

Alex leapt from his spot leaning against the wall, barreling towards the center of the room. Reggie sprang up onto his feet a second later, staggering himself slightly ahead of Alex. 

Positioning himself between them, Julie realized.

“Yeah,” Alex said, echoing Luke’s tone. “Seriously.”

“I already said I was sorry!” Luke said. “What do you want from me?”

Alex flashed a smile. “You’re right,” he said. “What else could I want from you? You’re sorry.”

“Come on, that’s not fair. I told you everything that I…”

“Are we done here?” Julie said, rising to her feet with a sigh.

Alex and Reggie turned to look at her, their eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

She leveled a weary glance at Rhea. “Are we talking about anything else today, or are we finished?” she said. "Because after everything we dealt with this morning, I'm not actually in the mood to see blood today."

Rhea hacked a short laugh. "You could have fooled me."

Luke squeaked with indignation from the opposite side of the room.

Rhea shrugged. “I’ll keep you posted on how the talks with the Asian promoters go,” she said. “They’re still interested in having you. It’s not a whole loss.”

“Great,” Julie said, breezing towards the door as Alex and Reggie fell in line behind her. “Always lovely to see you, Rhea.”

“Try not to kill each other,” Rhea called after them, “And if you do, don’t do it on live television.”

  
She circles back to the chorus, listening for Reggie’s voice as he moves through what should be her part. The harmonies are more complex than what they used to do, but he’s left space for her signature runs. 

It’s thoughtful of him, she thinks, to remember her style.

On the bridge, Luke's voice cracks as he slides high, a howl of an emotional note that slices through the backing instrumentals. He’d never been able to hide anything in his music, the rawness of everything he was feeling audible in every breath, every phrase—she once admired him for it, his openness. Even though it later got them into trouble.

But she knows how hard he works at it. The calculated growls and rasps, the hoarse shouts, all of it engineered to slot perfectly with the dynamics of how he wanted the song to play, how he wanted the emotions to scale.

Goosebumps prickle against her arm.

She knows it isn’t real, but she still likes to believe it.

  
  
If she’s being honest with herself, she knew it was coming. 

They knew each other too well then, and there was nothing about the way that he was playing that said anything other than that he was tired. If he wasn’t rolling through riffs, he was making them chunkier than they had played them in years. He was mumbling his way through parts. He was improvising more than he was playing. He was looking for a reason to run.

When she thinks about those days, what she remembers is how tense the air felt all the time, how thick it was with everything that none of them were saying. Nothing would be as bad as it would get later in Asia, but there was no mistaking the early signs. Even Reggie and Alex dragged themselves to their respective corners, saying little, joking even less, and leaving them to duke it out themselves. It started to feel less like they were in it together than they were a gang of four trying to steer themselves back home, and all jerking the wheel in different directions. 

If she’s really being honest with herself, she noticed the signs.

Somewhere, low in her gut, pushed out of sight, out of mind, maybe, but still there. When push came to shove, with his back up against a wall, Luke would always fight to give himself a chance at the future that he wanted. He had done it to his parents once, and he would do it to them, and she felt herself counting down the days, watching and waiting to see if there would be a show that finally broke the dam.

But even then, even when things were really bad, when they were fighting all of the time, she still had his voice in the back of her head while she was writing. His voice, from years ago, when he was just trying to get her to believe in their music, in the vision of their fame, their legacy. But at the end, none of them were writing anything for each other. They were just writing to keep themselves sane.

“Miss Molina,” the PA says.

She pulls her earbuds free and palms them. “Yes?”

“We’ve got five minutes, and I’m supposed to take you to the B stage now.”

She nods. “All right.”

 _The Late, Late Night_ B-stage is all set up for her performance tonight, laid out in warm colors and dressed with flowers. A bright red grand piano sits centered beneath the spotlight, a spray of pink and violet dahlias perched in a vase on top. There’s a drummer and some guitarists stationed behind her, doing some final tuning as she steps up onto the elevated stage.

“Hey, guys,” she greets, as the house band gives her some shy waves. “How are you doing tonight?”

There’s a vague murmur of answers, followed by a hushed flurry of activity as the cameramen and hands start setting up the lighting, checking the sound boards, and clocking the time.

She scans the room for Jesse, who’s flipping through his cue cards at a quick clip, and flags him over. He jogs towards her in his Italian loafers, sliding slightly on the waxed floor.

“Hey,” he says, “What’s up? You doing all right? If you need something, one of the PAs can grab it for you.”

She nods. “I know. I wanted to tell you that there’s been a small change.”

His eyebrows raise. “A change?”

“I know I’m supposed to be playing _The Mercies_ from the new album tonight, but…”

“But?”

“I want to do a bit of a nod to the fans,” she says. “A throwback, you know?”

“Okay,” he says, all business. “So for the cue, you want me to skip the album?”

She shakes her head. “No, intro the album, and then I’ll do a quick intro into the song.”

He nods. “You know that we can’t budget any more time, right?”

She nods. “I know the drill.” Leaning in, she pecks him quick on the cheek. “Thanks, Jesse.”

“You’re going to do great,” he says.

The only reason she could put herself back together in those weeks after he disappeared was because of Flynn.

Flynn, who didn’t leave her side for a second, who made sure that she ate, who brought her tissues and movies and sat with her while she tried to figure out what she was feeling and how to say it. Even Reggie and Alex, love them as she did and try as they might, were adrift in their own mess, trying to figure out how to rebalance their own lives without him.

And Luke, being Luke, did nothing. Left no messages, hadn’t sent anything to their manager, hadn’t shared where he was hiding out from them for the rest of…how long? It was the grief of losing her mother all over again, the sudden removal of a pillar of her life that she had always counted on. And Julie did what she always did—she locked herself away in her apartment and let nothing else break through. Not the news that trickled through of their band falling apart, not their manager’s frantic calls, their label’s threatening calls, her father’s worried calls.

She sat in the dark of her apartment, too exhausted to turn the lights on, too exhausted to open the windows, feeling the ache of losing him like a fresh wound. She was sore all over, barely eating, and crying more than she had in years. But Flynn was there, knocking at her door until she could be let in. Flynn was there, managing everything, sifting through messages, answering calls, returning texts, while she laid in bed for hours, smelling the shirts that he left behind, wondering if she would ever see him again.

Flynn was the one who held her in the middle of the night when she cried, stroking her hair, telling her that everything would be okay, that he would turn up, that they would find him, even when she knew that Flynn didn’t know anything more than she did.

And in the back of her mind, she could still see him, still knew exactly what he would say in a situation like this. She could feel his hands ghosting along the tops of her shoulders, could smell his soap as he leaned in to hug her from behind as he always did, his mouth brushing by the apple of her cheek. When he was close, he loved to hover, just to remind her that he was always there and that he would never leave her side.

And now where was he?

Reggie and Alex were too quick to excuse him, she thought, but they gave her the space they thought she needed. “We’re here for you, no matter what,” Reggie said.

Alex took her in his arms and gave her a squeeze of a hug. “This is just…Luke being Luke,” he said. “It’s not the best side of him, but it’s how he gets. You know how he is.”

Yes, she thought she did.

  
Of course he resurfaced three weeks later in a blurry photo snapped by some cab driver in Kingston.

In it, he looked tanned but skinny, aviators hiding his eyes.

She’d recognize him anywhere.

Jesse was the first show they booked on their comeback.

In the green room, she obsessed over her runs, desperate to focus on anything that she could control. Reggie and Alex holed themselves up in the corner, tapping their parts out against the table and rehearsing pieces of the song. Luke was the only one who sat in silence, his over-the-ear headphones on, his gaze fixed to the scrap of paper he was using for notes.

She hadn’t been so nervous for a gig since the first time they went on tour. Since the first time she stepped on stage. 

As Alex led them in with the count off, she reached for the mic stand and leapt in time to Reggie’s crashing bass line as the audience applauded and cheered. She could taste blood in the back of her mouth, her pulse pounding hard underneath the skin.

Luke slid into his part with ease, hitting the notes in his run clean and crisp, as she started singing. She had been so used to singing alongside him, to feeling his magnetic pull every time she moved on stage, that she forgot how disorienting it would be to try to ignore it. White-knuckling the mic stand with both hands, she stood dead center on the stage, staring out into the crowd as she danced and spun in place.

But there was no ignoring the weight of his eyes on her, the way he followed her as she moved, dancing with Reggie, bopping along to the rhythm with Alex. No matter how hard she tried to ignore him, her body tuned to him as it always did, her nerves sparking with the pull of his attention. 

As she slid back into place to start the next verse, he angled himself to face her as they rose into the bridge.

He mouthed the lyrics as she sang them, his fingers quick against the frets as he shifted into the key change. He flashed her a flirtatious smile, tossing his head to the beat, and she felt the familiar tremor of butterflies in her belly.

“Being so careless with our days and our hearts,” she sang, her eyes settling on him. His voice carried the harmony underneath her as he slowly drifted towards her mic.

She snapped the mic out of its holder and stomped away from him, glancing back at him as his guitar line punctured through the melody. He worked his lip between his teeth, his eyes flicking over her as she leaned forward, wailing into the mic.

“But don’t you know nothing gold can stay,” she sang. “As the road winds us further apart, and we dream of drifting back to Mandalay…”

And when he finally closed the distance between them, his arm grazing her side as he settled in closer to her, her body shifted on instinct, carving room for him there beside her.

“Don’t you stop dreaming of going back to Mandalay…” she sang, as he leaned towards her.

She twirled to the left, nearly colliding with Reggie as she skidded towards the end of the stage. “I won’t keep you from going back to Mandalay…”

The audience erupted into applause, and she leaned on Reggie’s arm as they took their bows.

She didn't look at him once.

What she’s never told the boys is just how much he tried after it was too late. How he called her over and over, filling her voicemail with the apologies that he never cared to leave before, telling her about the mistakes he’d realized he’d made. But she’s never been the kind of girl to be made a fool twice.

What she’s never told Flynn is how close she came to forgiving him, how it took her remembering the nights she spent lying awake, crying for so long that she felt like something inside of her had broken and would never come back together again, to keep from calling him back. The worst part of it had been all of the parts of grieving that she’d forgotten—the way it smoothed time into a single day, its endlessness, its depth. Like trying to see past the water to the bottom of the well.

She never wanted to feel that way again.

But everything has its breaking point, and he wasn’t any different.

She still remembers the last night that he tried—the bouquets of dahlias that he sent to her house, the handwritten letters that he sent to explain what he was thinking. But what hurt more than the fact that he never thought to tell her what was going through his head was that he never considered what she might have gone through in his absence, that her feelings never registered into his calculations at all.

The last thing he ever sent was a song. His final attempt to reach her where she might still be willing to hear him. 

It had barely been a song at that point, barely even a melody, as she strained to hear it through the narrow compression of her cell phone speaker, but there was no denying his voice or the heavy vibration of the thrumming acoustic strings underneath him.

What she’s never told anyone—what she has a hard time admitting to herself on the good days—is how long she spent with her phone in her hand, listening to the cracks of his voice as he tried to sing to her. How long she played it, barely catching any of his words, only the raw sounds of his voice as it rattled through the phone. How long she listened to the sound of his heart breaking over her, how satisfied she felt at hearing the sound come from somebody else’s mouth for once.

How long she cried.

As the house lights go down, Camera 2 slides forward to center Jesse as he props up the album on his desk. “And tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Julie Molina herself, here to perform a song from her latest album, _Runners on First_ , on sale and streaming Thursday. Run and get it everywhere.”

There’s the countdown of the line producer in her ear, and the camera slides on its track towards her, the stage lights flickering white before softening to focus on her.

She shifts her seat on the piano bench and slides forward to the mic. “I know that you’re expecting to hear something new tonight, but I’d like to play something else—an old favorite—to celebrate some old friends.”

With a small nod, she settles her hands on the piano, and slides right into _Bright_. 

She hasn’t sung it in years, but it comes back to her in fits and starts. It’s funny to think how unsuited her voice is to it now, its brightness, its sunniness, when she’s been maturing and evolving her sound since she left the Phantoms.

But when she hits her stride into the chorus, her voice as rich and powerful as ever, she can’t help but smile.

The last night they shared in Prague before he left, neither of them could sleep. Maybe she knew what was happening even then, but back then, she blamed it on the stress, on how close they were to the end of that leg of the tour. That night, he held her for hours, his chin tucked on top of her shoulder, the light scratch of his stubble scraping against her bare skin as they watched the clock count down to morning.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered to the wall. “I know it’s been hard on you. On all of us.” She rolled onto her side to face him, tossing a leg over his and drawing herself closer to him. “But you know that I couldn’t do this without you. None of us could.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “You can do whatever you want,” he said. “You’re stronger than you ever give yourself credit for, you know.”

“You know what I mean.”

He sighed. “This is different than what we signed up for,” he said. “You don’t think that this is crazy?”

She shrugged, her hair slipping behind her shoulders with the motion. “I know that you hate it,” she said. “But I’m saying to trust us. Julie and the Phantoms—we’ve been together for ten years now. We can get through it. I know we can.”

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the crook of her neck. (She should have seen it coming.)

Her hands moved to play with the ends of his hair, already too long in the back. Last time she had cut it for him herself, in the back parking lot of a Walmart they stopped at en route to their next show. He’d need another soon.

“What if I can’t do it, Jules?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Would you come with me?”

“What are you talking about?” she said. Rising up onto her elbows, she looked at him. “Are you thinking about quitting?”

He glanced down towards the bed. “I’m just thinking,” he said. “That’s all.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He reached for her and pulled her close, his arms linking behind her back. She trembled despite herself, taking a shaky breath as he settled her against his chest. “Hey,” he said. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere. You know it’s only music if I’m making it with you.”

She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “You better not go anywhere.”

His hands tightened around her. “I just…I don’t know. This can’t be forever, can it?”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, kissing him.

“Think about it,” he said. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

His fingers traced lightly up and down her spine, and she relaxed into him.

“What kind?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Telling the label to fuck off for one thing.”

She snorted. “Luke.”

“No, I mean it,” he said. “This is insane. When we’re not touring, we’re recording, we’re writing, we’re promoting. We need a new contract or a break. We can’t keep running like this.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, sleepily. Her eyes started to drift closed, but she focused on the sound of his voice, the rumble of his chest as he spoke.

He kissed her gently on the crown of her head. (She should have seen it coming.) “I love you, sweetheart,” he said.

She burrowed against his warmth. “Mmhmm.”

“You’re the best thing about this life, you know that?”

She was the one who found him gone that morning.

She figured that he had gone for a run or coffee or anything else. She didn’t notice his missing bags, or the empty corner of the hotel room where he usually kept anything he didn’t have a place for—souvenirs, snacks, empty water bottles. She didn’t notice that the bathroom had been cleared of his things. What she remembers is thinking that it was early yet, too early for him to be anywhere besides their bed, but relishing the satisfaction of a morning to herself.

Half asleep and slowly waking, she jotted him a quick note on hotel stationery, reminding him about sound check before leaving to get her breakfast, her coffee, and to meet the boys.

They went to rehearsal and waited for him. They went to sound check and waited for him. They went to their morning interviews and waited for him, talking in circles about the shows they were excited to do, their intentions for the album, while they tried to invent excuses for why Luke hadn’t shown. 

One absence after another, and there was no mistaking the growing tightness in her chest. 

She hadn’t had an anxiety attack since the early days after her mother’s passing, but no matter how many times she tried to tell herself that she was overreacting, her body refused to believe her.

They called his phone, but no answer.

They called the hotel room, but no answer.

By the end of the day, she had been locked into considering the worst, fighting off tears as she tried to calm herself enough to be presentable for their next round of press. Alex held her in the cab, his hands tight against her arms as he tried to keep her from falling apart.

“He wouldn’t do this to us,” he said. “We’re going to find him. Don’t worry.”

But even when she was going out of her mind, wearing the carpet thin from pacing back and forth, a small part of her knew, she figures. She must have. But in those hours that felt like days, the three of them clung to each other, hoping to stay afloat long enough to figure out what to do.

The show that night was canceled, their phones ringing off the hook from promoters and business managers and the label, demanding answers. And still, no one could figure out where Luke was.

They had four stops left on the European leg of the tour before they were meant to have a two-week break.

 _Where the fuck is he?_ , Alex asked her for the twentieth time that day as they headed back to their hotel.

She snapped, crunching her empty Starbucks cup in her hand and tossing it in the garbage. _Fucking gone._

A week later, they canceled the rest of the tour and returned home.

They didn’t talk about it.

The truth is they all knew that it wasn’t working towards the end. None of them wanted to be the first to admit it, but there was no denying that things hadn't improved since their reunion in Rhea's office. If anything, they'd only gotten worse. But, at the time, going back on the road was the only way they could see to get through it—to get past all of the hurt feelings, the things they weren’t talking about, the grudges they were still nursing--to get past those weeks of lost time and back to the music, the one thing that still linked them together.

But every time she looked at him, she couldn’t write anymore. 

Every time she looked at him, she felt like she was still standing in the doorway of Rhea's office, the rage and grief carving itself fresh into her bones.

And every time they took to the stage, she forced her attention to the crowd or the mic, anything to ignore him standing on the opposite side of the stage, singing harmony to her lines. They were less like a band and more like a group audition, singing alongside rather than singing together.

Looking back, saying it wasn’t the same feels like the most obvious thing in the world. But all they could see at the time was how close they were to having it back again—having it be normal again—and feeling it slip through their fingers anyway.

They wanted to believe that the music was bigger than any of their personal baggage.

They wanted to believe that they could outlive anything.

They never counted on the music breaking when they broke down too.

The night before they called it—before the show they didn’t know would be their final show, in Tokyo—she and Alex and Reggie crawled out to one of the slimiest dive bars they could find. The lighting made all of the drinks look shamrock-green and lent the walls a greasy shine, but they piled into the corner table, Alex sweating through his leather jacket, and sat and drank themselves into better moods.

“This isn’t working, guys,” Reggie said, downing his shot. “You know it the same as I do.”

Reggie had always been the bravest of all of them.

What she remembers is them drinking themselves into a stupor, talking here and there whenever the liquor loosened their tongues too much. She remembers laughing harder than she had for months that night at the way that Alex started drunk dialing his boyfriend from half a world away, at the way that both boys leaned their elbows on the table and sandwiched her between them as they kissed her on the cheek, at the way the boys drunkenly wailed through _Born to Run_.

“You haven’t looked happy in a long while,” Reggie said, grinning stupidly over his sixth shot, nudging her cheek with his knuckles.

She wiped her mouth with her hand and tasted stale bourbon. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s been hard.”

“Nothing about this should be hard,” Reggie said. “We have the best fucking jobs in the world. We’re, like, beloved. _VICE_ thinks we’re cool.”

Alex snorted into his drink and pushed glasses of water towards them. “That’s what you’re going for?”

Julie reached for hers and downed nearly half of it in a go.

“Jesus Christ, Molina,” Alex said. “Slow down.”

She shrugged, and leaned back against her seat, alcohol warming through her skin. “Why?” she said. “Why slow down? Why do anything?”

Reggie clicked his tongue. “You getting philosophical on us there, Socrates?” he said, pronouncing the name in two syllables as Alex howled.

Julie slumped in her seat, letting her head drop against Reggie’s shoulder. “I love you, guys,” she said. “You’re like the other brothers I never had.”

Alex patted her lightly on the head. “You have a brother.”

“I know,” she said, pouting. “But he was _so_ annoying.”

“And we’re not?” Alex scoffed.

“Hey,” Reggie said, holding up a finger. “Speak for yourself.”

“Fuck,” Julie said, groaning loudly. “Why did he come back?”

The boys glanced at each other, and said nothing.

“I mean, I’m glad he came back, but why did he have to…fucking…come back to this, to us?” she said. “It’s not—It was a fucking joke thinking that we could just wake up and be Julie and the Phantoms again. Like nothing happened.”

She dropped her head in her hands and groaned. 

“I hate him,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” Alex and Reggie said.

“I mean it,” she said. “I fucking—god, fuck him.”

“Julie,” Alex said, and she lifted her head to blink at him. “He didn’t just do this to you.”

She sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know I keep…”

“No,” Alex said. “He didn’t just do this to you. He did this to all of us.”

She nodded slowly. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry I keep talking over…”

“You’re not hearing me,” Alex said, on a huff.

“We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to,” Reggie said again, slowly. “That’s what he’s trying to tell you.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, jabbing a finger at the corner of her mouth and pushing it upward. “So smile once in a while, huh?”

She snorted, hooking her finger against his and dragging it away from her face.

“Pinky promise,” she said.

“That’s not your pinky,” Reggie said.

“Shut up,” she said. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“All right, So-crates,” Alex said.

What she never told anyone—not the boys, not Flynn, not anyone—was that he called her once after Prague. It had been well after midnight on the west coast, and who knew what time it was wherever he was hiding? The connection was weak, crackling with clicks and static, but she still remembers the relief she felt at hearing his voice come through, distorted and full of feedback.

“Julie?”

She remembers thanking her mom, thanking God, thanking every angel that she ever begged for a chance to speak to him again.

“Luke?” she said.

He sighed, and the line rustled like a potato chip bag.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Are you alive? Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m fine.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I left the country,” he said.

“Where?” she said.

Static stuttered over the line.

“What?” he said.

“Where the fuck are you?” she said.

“I'm--I just had to get away,” he said.

“What do you mean, you had to get away? Do you know what we went through in Prague when you stopped showing up? Do you know what I thought, finding all your shit gone?”

“Jules,” he said. “I told you…I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t talk to me? What?” she said. “We were partners, Luke. That means that you open your mouth and tell us what the fuck is going on.” 

“I was losing it,” he said. “The music. The vision. All of it. _Us_. I was losing it to the fucking—all that bullshit—the hoops they were making us jump through. And I couldn’t…stay.”

She sucked in a hard breath. “Where,” she said, crisply, “are you? Are you coming back? Do you ever plan on coming back?” 

“Not, uh, not right now,” he said. “I don’t know.”

She scrubbed at her eyes with her hand. “You don’t know if you’re coming back?” she said. “To, what, to the band? To me? To _America_?”

“I just need to sort my head out,” he said. “And I can’t do that…”

“You can’t do that with me?” she said. 

“No, that’s not what I’m—look, I know I’m not making any sense. I’m trying to figure it out, but I just needed space from all of the—the cameras and the reporters and—and—”

“And us,” she finished. “And me, and Reggie and Alex.”

“No,” he said. “Jules, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she said. “Talk to me.”

He took a shaky breath. “I’m trying to figure it out."

“Okay,” she said, flatly.

He sighed, heavy on the line. “I needed—I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Why now?” she said.

"Julie."

“No, I'm serious. Why not three weeks ago, when I thought you were hurt or dying or dead? Why not the day after? Why does it matter now?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said.

“It _was_ like that,” she said. “You did to us what you did to your parents. You did it again and you didn’t stop to think about whether you were hurting other people. Again.”

He didn’t say anything. She could picture him clenching his jaw, maybe his fists, every line of his body tightening as he processed what she was saying.

“I know you’re hurt,” he said, slowly. “I know I hurt you. But I’m asking you to listen to me.”

She sniffed. “Okay,” she said. “Fine.”

“Do you remember what we talked about?” he said. “Before…”

“Before you fucking bailed on us?” she said. “Yeah, I think I can recall something. Maybe. In the back of my mind. Where you told me you loved me? Right before you left without a word for a month? Is that what you’re referring to?”

“Jules,” he said, his voice weary and thin over the line. “The music.”

She sucked in a slow breath, clicking her tongue in disbelief. “Is that why you called?” she said. “After all of this, you called to ask me about work?”

“Listen to me…”

“After all the shit that you pulled, you’re calling me to ask about the fucking _contract_?” she said. “Not a word about Reggie or Alex, not a word about where you are and why you did it, but you want to know about the contract?”

No answer.

“Are you serious?” she said. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Julie,” he said.

She gasped, her chest tight with heat, breath catching in her throat. “You are unbelievable,” she said, voice cracking. She tried to take another bracing breath, but the tears came anyway, trailing hot against her cheeks. The loss hit her again sidelong with the rage, and she couldn’t see straight, so angry and embarrassed that she couldn’t pull one coherent sentence out of her mouth. “Do you _know_ what you put us through? Did it even fucking enter your mind?”

“I am _sorry_ ,” he said. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, but—there was no way for us to keep going like that, and you know it.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, that’s not good enough. You don’t get to make a choice without talking to all of us. This is not the Luke Patterson band anymore. You don’t get to call all of the shots.”

“So what,” he snapped. “It’s got your name on it so it belongs to you?”

“It’s not about the band!” she cried. “It is about what you did. Jesus Christ, Luke, can you not see that? We thought you were missing— _dead_ —and the only thing you were thinking about was your music? Your feelings? What about us? Alex and Reggie and me?”

“This has nothing to do with how I feel about you—with us,” he said. “It’s everything else. It’s all the other shit—”

“It is about us. You ran away because you didn’t want to talk to us. Because you didn’t trust us.”

“I did it because I knew it was the only way that I could!” he shouted. “If I talked to you, I knew I wouldn’t leave. I had to—”

“You didn’t have to,” she said. “You didn’t. You can tell yourself you did the right thing all you want, but you know that you never tried to talk to us. Not once. You just threw it all away.”

“I needed the distance. I had to clear my head,” he said. “I had to…”

“Bullshit,” she hissed. “You put yourself first again, over the people that you say you love.”

“I do love you,” he said. "I love you so much."

“Why are you calling?” she said. “Why are you calling me right now? Not to tell me where you are or when you’re coming home, not to ask me how I’m doing or how I’ve been without you—which is fucking awful, thanks—or how Reggie and Alex are doing. You’re calling to ask me to forgive you.”

“I want you to come with me,” he said. “I can’t do this without you.”

She scoffed. “You already did.” 

“Jules, please.”

“If you wanted me to go with you, you would have said something,” she said. “That night. But you’re calling me now. Because you’re there, and you’re feeling lonely, and you finally remembered that I’m around.”

“That’s not—”

“Fuck you,” she said. “Honestly. Do whatever you want. I sure as hell can’t stop you.”

She wrote _Losing Time_ in a two-hour stretch that night. 

It became the first single off her debut solo album, cracking Diamond status within a year, garnering Grammy, AMA, and Billboard Award nominations, landing as the most-requested song of 2034.

She hoped it chased him everywhere he went.

She hoped it kept him up at night.

(She hoped he hurt as much as she once hurt.)

  
By the time she returns to her hotel room for the night, she has six missed calls from Flynn, and two each from the boys so she figures the episode has finally aired. She strips off all her makeup, ties her hair up in its scarf, and settles down for some emails and preparation for an early morning. Tomorrow, as Amy reminds her, they have double the amount of promotion scheduled so they can squeeze in all the press time they can get for the album. _After her little stunt_ is how Amy puts it.

Flynn picks up after the first ring, and immediately screams.

Julie laughs. “Girl,” she says. “I just came back to the hotel. You got to bring it down by, like, three.”

“Are you kidding me,” Flynn yelps on the phone. “What are you doing throwbacks for?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know. It came back to me.”

“You mean that you were thinking about it because of all that Hall of Fame shit, right?” Flynn says.

Flynn has always had an uncanny ability to read her mind, especially when she least wants her to. Julie sighs and sags forward against the vanity in her hotel room, pulling the curtains slightly ajar to peer up at the Manhattan skyline. All the skyscrapers are still lit somehow, their edges poking up into the sky, shining with the reflection of the night. 

She can hear people fighting down on the street.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” Flynn says. “If you don’t want to.”

“Everyone’s counting on me,” Julie says. “I can’t just not show up at the Julie and the Phantoms ceremony. Do you know how many people would throw my shit out after that?”

Flynn sighs. “Every time I talk to you, you sound exhausted,” she says. “When are you going to take a break? When am I going to see you again?”

She stifles a yawn, and calculates the time on her fingers. The last time she saw Flynn in person was a few months ago when she had a two-day stopover at home. Well, Flynn's home.

They spent the time staying up late to talk, bullying Flynn’s husband into fetching them snacks, and gossiping about people Julie hasn’t thought about in years. Flynn has the incredible superpower of being able to make Julie feel normal again, somehow, no matter where she’s coming from, what she’s dressed like, or how many people have touched her hair or face that morning.

If she thinks about it too long, she starts to feel on the verge of collapse, so she pushes it out of mind. “I should have a break before the tour starts,” she says. “And then after that, it’s going to be months on the road. When I get back, I’m going to take a break before I start writing again.”

“That’s not a break,” Flynn says. “You have to take care of yourself, you know.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Did you call me six times just to nag me?”

“No,” Flynn says. “I called you six times to figure out what’s up with you. Did something happen with you and…you know?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Girl, come on," she says. "You know everything that's gone on there. Things between Luke and me aren't changing.”

“Yeah, I don't know,” Flynn says, her tone unreadable. "But then tonight..."

“I was thinking about the guys,” she says. “The Phantoms put us all on the map, and it felt like something I should do.”

“Yeah,” Flynn says. “As long as, you know, that’s…something that you’re cool with.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Flynn repeats, exasperated, “Everything you do lately is for somebody else, or for something. You never do anything just for you anymore, you know? Ray told me that he hasn’t talked to you in weeks.”

“It’s just been crazy lately,” Julie says.

“I worry about you, that’s all,” Flynn says. “I don’t want you to withdraw again. We’re all here for you and you can talk to us. You can talk to me. Anytime. No matter what the hell I’m dealing with.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“How is my dad?” she asks.

Flynn clicks her tongue. “You know Ray. He’s taking a pottery class or something now. Teaching photography at the community college. He’s really living up his retirement.”

She laughs. “That’s good.”

“I think C is driving him crazy, but there’s nothing to do about that.”

“That’s just Carlos,” Julie says.

“Hey,” Flynn says.

Julie hums on the line, beginning to nod off.

“You saw the _GQ_ thing?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t see anything Amy doesn’t shove in front of me. What _GQ_ thing?”

“An interview feature with Luke,” she says. “It’s their cover story this month.”

“Yeah?” she says. “What did he say about me this time?”

“Nothing really,” Flynn says. “He says that he thinks you’ll be professional at the Hall of Fame thing.”

She snorts. “Professional,” she repeats. 

“But they didn’t drag too much of the old shit up,” Flynn says. “So maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Thanks for looking out for me,” she says.

“You know…” Flynn says.

“Yeah?”

A pause carries over the line. And then, she hears Flynn’s halting start. “I think that there’s…a lot that maybe…you didn’t get the chance to talk about,” she says. “About all of this stuff that went down. So maybe before you head out to Cleveland, you should…try to talk to somebody about it.”

“Flynn.”

“No, I mean,” Flynn says. “It doesn’t have to be me, it doesn’t have to be a therapist. Shit, write it down or something. Write it out. But you don’t want that showing up on stage with you, do you?”

She considers it, and shrugs. “I’ll think about it,” she says. “But I got to brush my teeth and crawl into bed before I pass out.”

“Hey,” Flynn says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re my girl. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Julie says. “And you’re mine.”

The first time she saw him again after Tokyo was at the American Music Awards. 

She was halfway through promotion for her album, which had been steadily rising through the charts, and set to perform the lead single. His album, _Abandon All Hope_ , had its own slew of nominations, mostly for songwriting, and they staged him near the front of the auditorium in the expectation that his name would be called. He looked good, if nervous, if a little too skinny, sunglasses on even indoors.

She hadn’t realized that he would be so close.

Without Alex and Reggie, she had a backing band instead, and they played her on with the buzzy hook of the bass riff repeating until she could get to her mark.

The pressure of the night—the importance of pulling off a good show—had been running through her head the entire day, and all she could think about was making sure that she impressed the right people, racked up enough views on YouTube to get the label off her back, and tried not to pop out of the ridiculous outfit they’d given her for the occasion, earning herself an FCC violation and a blackball along the way.

She looked like she jammed her finger into the nearest electrical outlet—a glam disco Bride of Frankenstein. Dressed in a red leather jumpsuit with her chest shoved into a push-up nearly up to her throat, her hair teased and fried to nearly twice its height, she took a breath and tried to steady the hammer of her heart as she strutted towards the mic. 

The guitar jolted into a sliding riff as she took to the stage, her platform boots stomping against the hard floor. The crowd roared to life, screaming her name. White lights bore down on the top of her head, and she pouted towards the camera, taking her position in front of the mic.

A four-count tapped off on the drumsticks before the guitars and drums crashed right into the verse. With her hands shaking, she gripped the mic stand with a tight fist, and scowled right into the camera.

_last night watch the clock count down_   
_run you out of town_   
_kicking and screaming, wailing and weeping_   
_last night watch the check out line_   
_take you out of time_   
_tearing you down, all alone in this town_

She didn’t notice him until he rose in his seat, the sunglasses inching down the bridge of his nose. He didn’t try to hide his shock, his mouth hanging slightly open as he watched her.

She wished she could say she hadn't thought about him in the months since.

She wished she could say she hadn't run through every single fight they had in the final stretch of things.

(She wished she could say she didn't still love him then.)

She glanced towards him in the crowd, dragging the mic stand to a sharp angle as she pulled the mic free and skipped towards the other side of the stage. Ronny, her guitarist, cruised into a quick riff, and she leaned against him as he played, watching his fingers flutter quickly over the frets, as she swallowed the last of her nerves. 

_you thought you could leave me behind_   
_ghost of a floater in your right eye_

Crossing back towards the center of the stage, she jammed the mic back in its holder and led into the choreography, a series of hip rolls and quick hopping steps that hid the impossibility of moving in her high shoes.

_you thought i would take it on the chin_   
_well, this just in, baby, this just in_

Her voice rose into the hard edge of the chorus, a gritty sound laying over her usually smooth vocals.

He stood in the second row, his hands jammed in his pockets, the line of his jaw tense. The girl beside him leaned close, clapping along to the song, while Julie hit the sharp keen of the chorus.

_breaking breaking all the time_   
_you were making for the exit sign_

She raised her arm, gesturing out towards the audience, before she settled her gaze on him again. He stood almost completely rigid, not swaying or dancing along to the song as the other executives beside him, not seated and looking bored as some of the other artists. She felt the heat of his eyes on her as she moved through the rest of her choreography, and she couldn't read it—anger or heat or recognition, she couldn't tell anymore—and she didn't want to try.

She wondered if he still recognized the bones of the piece she had been working on before—well, before.

Pulling the mic free, she knelt to a crouch on stage and leaned forward, crooning her improvised runs over the final chorus. He swallowed hard, his hands tightening against the sides of his thigh.

The petite blonde next to him gripped his arm, squeezing it, and Julie blew a stray hair out of her face as she slid into the final lines of the chorus.

_losing all your faith in eternity_   
_losing all the ground beneath your feet_

She raised her eyebrows, arching her back as she rose back to standing. Popping her shoulders in a shrug, she hit the swooping final high notes in a belt, kicking her leg out towards the camera in a cry.

_losing all the credit and your dignity_   
_but all i’m losing is the time you stole from me_

Turning on the toe of her shoe, she flicked imaginary dust off of her shoulder and snarled the final line, “And who’s better off?”

It was an ET reporter that pulled him aside and caught his reaction on camera. Luke was always passable enough at the publicity game to know when to smile and what lines to say, and he did so at first, a weak thing that pulled at the corners of his mouth and didn’t meet his eyes.

“Luke! Luke! Luke!” the reporter cried. “Tonight we saw the exclusive live performance of _Losing Time_ here at the American Music Awards. You were front row for that, and Julie Molina is, of course, one of your old bandmates…”

She pulled a tiny wink right at the camera, as Luke chuckled.

"Yes..." he said.

“Can you tell us what you thought?”

He smacked his lips. “Well,” he started, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose, “I thought it was a great performance. Julie’s always been a great performer. But it’s not my style.”

“Oh?” the reporter said, eyebrows raised and smelling blood. “Can you say more?”

He quirked his mouth into a smirk. “A little melodramatic for my taste,” he said. “It’s not the best song she’s ever done.”

“Oh,” the reporter repeats, looking stunned. With a wide grin at the camera, she adds, “There you have it, folks. Luke Patterson.”

(When they ask her for comment, she rattles off the first thing that comes to mind that isn’t pure profanity: “Luke Patterson is talking to _me_ about melodrama? Listen, the day I want to know what he thinks about my music, I’ll ask him myself. His perspective has always been narrow— _slanted_ —towards what he likes.”

“And is there anything else you’d like to add about the performance?” the reporter goads. “Of course, some people believe that it’s about…” 

“No,” Julie says, smiling. “Like a lot of what I write, it’s a song about women finding the voice to leave situations that don’t serve them. It’s about finding something better.”)

  
  
Forget the way the story goes. They never meant to be public.

It was a late show in Amsterdam, the fifth stop on the second leg of their fourth major international tour. Reggie had been fighting off the last of a flu that dogged him since they crossed the ocean, and Alex locked himself away to try to protect himself from getting sick. They had been running close to empty, coasting off of the fumes of touring, the rampant attention from their fans, the cheers and screams. 

Later, he tried to play it off by saying that it was because he was tired, that he hadn’t considered what he was doing.

But on their second encore, dripping sweat, their voices exhausted, he raced in front of her towards the mic and teased a new song. Something acoustic, something more intimate, something new that no one else had heard publicly.

There are some artists who feed that line at every show, but Luke always meant it. 

She still remembers the shared look of terror that passed over Alex and Reggie’s faces as they tried to figure out how they were going to improvise a backing track under a song they had never heard before. But they were all five drinks deep and she was buzzing, warm in her belly and bouncing on her toes, feeding off of the magnetic energy of the crowd. Of him, restless by the mic.

“Do you want me on piano?” she said.

He grinned at her, flipping his damp hair out of his eyes. “You guys can follow my lead, right?” he said.

“You’re an asshole, dude,” Alex said, rolling his drumstick along the edge of a cymbal as the crowd rocked and waved in expectation.

Reggie laughed.

“Don’t pull this shit on me again,” Alex said. "This close to the end of the tour?"

Julie giggled despite herself. “Come on,” she said. “We do this, we get dinner, we get trashed, we call it a night?”

“Just one more song, right?” Luke said, grinning.

Alex leveled a drumstick at him in idle threat.

Even now, years later, she’s never had another night rival the energy of that evening. Something about the air was electric—maybe it was that they didn’t know what could happen, that waiting for him to start playing felt like balancing on the tip of a knife edge. So much of touring comes to be routine—the same songs every night, the same kind of gig banter, the same cheers and jeers from a restless crowd. They were as impatient to hear what he had written as the crowd was.

And then it was just him and his six-string, swaying at the front of the stage. It was a quicker tempo than he usually played acoustic, but he finger-picked the intro, chuckling into the mic while the audience tried to settle quiet enough to listen.

She stood at the other side of the stage, listening as Reggie plunked a soft tremulous bass line underneath his quick accompaniment.

When he sang, his voice was low, warmer and gruffer than he liked to sing, rough around the edges the way it always was at the very end of his range.

_coming off the edge of patience_   
_making a break for the ends of town_   
_don’t you know why i’m running_   
_can’t you see how i’m gunning_   
_for a chance to make the light_

Alex threw in a baseline of kick drum, a steady pounding bass that vibrated through her core, almost in time to the sound of her heartbeat. She grinned as she looked out at the crowd, feeling the joy of the night settle into her bones all at once. It was everything that she loved about music, how it could move you—physically move you—and shake you until it was all you could think about.

She dangled her arm off of the edge of the stage, dragging her palm through the air as dozens of screaming fans reached up to try to take her hand.

 _and isn’t there time to say what i mean_  
 _and isn’t there you, waiting unseen_  
 _and isn’t there a shot caught in the dark_  
 _and we’re waiting, and we’re waiting, and we’re waiting_

Reaching for a tambourine, she rattled it in double-time, a crisp leaves-crunch noise that textured the sound. Everyone in the crowd rolled back on their heels, readying themselves for the release, waiting for the explosion of the chorus. 

When he finally erupted, his voice going wide, rising into his range, the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the ceiling.

She screeched with joy as the crowd burst into dancing, laughing at Reggie as she rocked on her toes in time to the beat.

_but they don’t need you like i need you_   
_they don’t want you like i want you_   
_won’t you think of me, won’t you leave it be_   
_saying run girl run, just run girl run_   
_stop me if you’ll be my turnkey_

As he led into the second verse, frenetic and restless, he shrugged at her, gesturing at her to come closer.

Her body buzzed with the crunchy yowl of the bass, and she bounced towards him, rolling her eyes at Reggie as she did so. It was Luke being Luke, needy with how he wanted her blocked, with how close he wanted her at all times. She understood the reasoning—the line they cut against the light, the chemistry that played to their advantage with critics, with fans, with footage all over the world. They had been leaning on their dynamic more and more over the run of the tour until it seemed like their every show ended with Luke leaning against her shoulder as he played the final notes.

The tambourine rattled against her palm as she leaned into his space, stretching to place her mouth near to the mic. Without the lyrics, she harmonized on nothing but sounds, soft ahhs and oohs to back the melody.

And when he lifted his head, his fingers keeping time on the guitar, he looked right at her. Warmth coiled up from her core, heat rising in her cheeks. He kept playing, his fingers moving in quick formations against the neck of the guitar, but his eyes steady on hers.

With a giddy laugh, she took a step off-balance, lightheaded with the last of her buzz, with the fun of flirting on stage. Reaching for the mic stand, she leaned against it to steady her balance.

The lights made him glow, the sweat glistening against his shoulders and collarbone as he smiled at her, nodding his head in time to the beat.

_don’t you know why i’m running_   
_can’t you see how i’m gunning_   
_for a shot to win the fight_

She turned back towards the crowd, leaping up into a twirl and dancing as he started into the chorus.

And then he was angling towards her, the neck of his guitar pulled towards his left side.

Something between a laugh and a gasp caught in her throat, her chest suddenly tight. Reggie slipped down a few tones on the bass, and the line grew menacing. A dark, low note like a growl, like a hunger.

He reached for her, his fingers grazing against the edge of her t-shirt as she darted backwards, slipping away towards the mic on the opposite side of the stage. “But they don’t need you like I need you,” she sang breathy and high into the mic, rising into harmony with him, “They don’t want you like I want you.”

He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “Won’t you think of me, won’t you leave it be…”

With a nod towards Alex, the drumming built up into a high crescendo of a fill, cascading into a frantic solo. The crowd shrieked Alex's name, blinding them with a series of camera flashes. Luke slung his guitar against his back, and strutted into center stage.

He passed the mic and kept going, the set list crunching under his shoe as he slid in beside her at her mic.

“Run girl run,” he sang quietly, his hand sliding around her waist. 

She stilled, turning towards him with wide eyes. Her breath caught in her chest, her skin humming from his touch. She could feel how warm he was, how close he was, that she nearly imagined the heat of his breath against her cheek.

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he pulled her closer, until they were standing with their bodies nearly pressed together. The leather of his vest brushed against her as he closed the distance, the hard angle of his hips notching against hers. She sucked in a quick breath, her face warm from her antics around stage, warm for another reason, as his thumb traced a line against the divot of her lower back.

The fans nearest the stage screamed their names, banging their hands against the stanchions. 

His mouth grazed the mic, looping the phrase in a bedroom whisper until it hung over them—the promise of the end of the song, the finish. The heat of his hand burned through the thin fabric of her shirt, the rough callus on his index finger scratching against the slip of bare skin exposed by her shirt riding up.

And then she lost sight of the rest of the venue, of Alex and Reggie, of anything other than him looking at her.

He licked his lips as he took a steadying breath, his eyes darting to glance at her mouth.

Alex clapped the drumsticks together and they fell into the spell of the bass, looping, the hungry click of the drumsticks, and Luke's voice, low and sultry. "Run girl run, I said run girl run, won't you run girl run..."

She leaned forward to harmonize with him as he slid into the end.

His hands rose to cup her face, fingers scratching into her thick curls. The crowd noise exploded through the rafters, everyone losing their minds, until she couldn’t hear anything else.

She couldn’t feel her face, couldn’t feel any part of her except where he was touching her, his hands slick with sweat, warm and rough. 

“Darling, won’t you be my turnkey,” he sang.

As Alex rattled the drumsticks against the edge of the cymbal, cuing for the end, Luke leaned in and pecked at her bottom lip. A nothing of a kiss.

If she’s being honest, she still doesn’t have a reason for what happened next. She was tired (true); she was confused (true); she was running on adrenaline (true). 

But for the first time she can remember, she did exactly what she wanted to do without thinking. Before Reggie had a chance to crash through with the ending bass chord, she threw her arms around Luke and kissed him again. His lips were a little chapped and he tasted like sweat, but he smelled like Luke, and it felt like the closest thing to coming home she'd had in weeks.

His arms wrapped around her, bracing around her back as he lifted her up into the air. She burst into a giddy laugh, her hair draping over his face as the cymbal roll went on for beats, barely audible through the roar of blood in her ears (or was that the crowd?), through Luke's husky laugh against her mouth.

She didn’t even notice the lights of a thousand cell phones go off.

  
  
After, all she can remember is how much shit they got. 

Reggie and Alex crowing and hollering as they tried to pack up their kit and head on to the next stop, the boys play-wrestling while they tried to make it out of the venue on time. She doesn’t remember ever blushing so much. But sometimes, in between the teasing and the play-fighting, he would look over at her, and she would feel it again, that live-wire of nerves that shot straight through her down to her toes.

“Listen, lovebirds,” Alex said, “You do whatever you want, but you wait until Reggie and I get the fuck out of here, okay?”

Julie flipped them off. “Shut up, man,” she laughed. “We’re still going for dinner, aren’t we?”

Dinner after the show was always McDonald’s or bar food, something deep-fried and salty, grease you had to lick off of the tips of your fingers. She always loved wandering the town after the show, weary to her bones but riding high with the energy. Every town was alike in its own way after dark, packs of drunk students and partiers wandering around lost like coyotes, laughter and singing chasing through the empty streets.

They soaked it up, the four of them, wandering around as they ate, watching the streetlights change or seeing how each city settled into its routine for the night. Of everywhere they went, Paris had always been the absolute best to see at night, she thought, with the narrow streets nearly all empty, the weight of its beauty and history pressing in all at once. There were always people lingering too, no matter how late the hour, hovering in doorways, in bars, smoking, the lit ends of their cigarettes giving the night its own blue glow.

That night, as they finished up their late-night Big Macs and shoestring fries, she linked her arm with Luke’s and leaned against him, staggering in her heeled show boots down the cobblestone streets. When her heel got stuck between two and she tripped forward, he swooped her into his arms instead, over-the-threshold style. Reggie whistled and Alex groaned (“What did I say, guys? What did I say?”) while she laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. And after walking a few feet, Luke, god bless, huffing and puffing, had to set her back down.

When she thinks of it now, that night still seems so glittering and fragile and unreal, as if it could shatter if she studied it too hard. They were giddy with the show, still feeling the highs of being on tour and living at the top of the charts. And even with all of the cell phone footage, they’d still have the next three months to themselves, holed up in his renovated studio, pretending to write music while they lost themselves in each other.

It was a honeymoon period more than anything else, she thinks, but it was the time away from the press, from the cameras, from having to explain what they were doing. (Did they ever know?)

But even then, even when they were unsure of what had happened or where they were going, they took it in stride and acted as if nothing had changed. As if they were still (only, just) friends. The four of them returned to the hotel and got ready to pack up and head out the following morning.

Reggie and Alex disappeared into their rooms immediately, but they took their time, loitering in the hotel bar until it closed, and then the lobby, and then the hallway outside of her room. 

She remembers the frantic pulse of her heart, the endless list of questions rattling in the back of her mind, the unsettled butterflies in her belly, even though her mind kept looping on the refrain that this was fine, this was Luke, this was someone she trusted with her life. But that didn’t mean that there weren’t going to be consequences, or that she wasn’t terrified about what he might say.

"So," she said.

And he slid his hand against hers, the touch electric and comforting, and pulled her towards him as they slowed in front of her room door.

He set his hand against the base of her neck, fingers playing at the thick curls there. This time, when he leaned in, he moved deliberately and touched a soft, tender kiss against her mouth, his lips gently pulling at hers. 

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

His finger eased a stray curl out of her face as he kissed her again. “Hey,” he said, his voice low. “It’s just me.”

"Yeah," she said, leaning in to bump her nose against his. "It's you."

He kissed her again, soft and slow, as if he were teasing out the time of it, figuring out the right pace. He licked against the line of her bottom lip, and she reached for his arms, grateful to hold onto something to keep her upright. She had never felt so overwhelmed by him—by anything—in her life. He surrounded her, the smell of him, the taste of him, the thought of everything they had been keeping to themselves for, what, months? (Or, if she's being honest, years.)

He chuckled, murmuring something she couldn't catch, as he angled his head and kissed her again, his mouth opening against hers as he deepened the kiss. She felt his hesitation, the careful way that he made sure that they were tiptoeing down the slope, but the tension in her belly twisted and she just wanted him closer, wanted more of him, wanted to do nothing but kiss him for hours.

Her mouth opened against his with a soft groan, her hands linking around his neck and pulling him into her. His hand steadied against the side of her face as he moved with her. She could suddenly feel every inch of him against her body—the hard muscle of his legs, the bone of his hip, the weight of his arms.

With a quiet gasp, they stumbled back against her door and he laughed against her skin, his hand reaching out to brace himself up against the wall. She was close enough to feel him breathing, to see the shadow of his eyelashes against his cheek.

“You know,” she whispered, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, “Usually this doesn’t go very well.”

“What?” he said, voice rough with want.

“This kind of thing.”

He leaned in and blew gently across her pulse point before anointing the spot with a wet kiss. “I see.”

“Luke,” she sighed.

He looked up at her, and she giggled. A jolt of girlish anxiety kicked in her chest. “You’re all right,” he said, half-asking.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said.

“Whatever we want.”

(That was the start of everything, she thinks. That first night together.

A beginning, and the beginning of the end.)

  
  
In the morning, Amy swings by the hotel at four to get her ready for the morning shows, a gigantic coffee in hand and stylists hanging back behind her.

“Did you have a nice night?” she says.

Julie shrugs and crawls out of bed with a grumble and an eye roll. “Let me brush my teeth and shower before anybody touches me, please.”

“You don’t sleep so late.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” she says.

“Yeah?” Amy says. “Anything to blame?”

“Don’t go digging,” she says. “Please.”

“Well,” Amy says, “Janine has the booking all sorted out so if you don’t want to go to Cleveland, now’s the time to say something.”

“Is this when you tell me that I have a choice but I don’t have a choice?”

“No,” Amy says. “You tell me what you want.”

Reggie ends up being the one to pull the trigger.

They were between sets at Tokyo, the crowd thundering their feet for an encore, the applause booming through to backstage in ripples and waves. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said.

“Christ,” Alex said, tilting his head back against the wall and rolling his eyes. “Not you, too. Can we finish one show? Can we finish one show without somebody leaving halfway through?”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Fuck you too.”

“Great,” Julie said, tossing an empty water bottle across the room. “This is the kind of energy we need to head into the encore.”

Reggie stood and shook his head. “This isn’t working,” he said. “I don’t know what we were thinking, but this isn’t working. We need a break.”

“Right now?” Luke said.

“Are _you_ going to lecture someone about staying?” Julie said.

“Can you stay out of it?” he replied. “Not everything has to do with you—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up and leave her alone,” Alex said.

“Hey!” Reggie called, and three heads snapped up to look at him. “I mean it. After tonight, we need—I don’t know what we need, but we’re not going to find it on tour. We did our best.”

Alex huffed a laugh. “This is unbelievable. No one’s going to give us fucking shit after this.”

“So what?” Julie said, leaning onto her elbows. “We go out and play an encore, and split up at the airport? That’s it?”

Reggie shrugged.

“This is really it?” Luke said. “You’re really going to do this here?”

“As opposed to sneaking out in the middle of the night, I guess,” Julie said.

“Look,” Reggie said. “Before this becomes an argument we’ve all heard _eight thousand_ times, give or take, I don’t want to deal with this anymore. I don’t want to deal with _the two of you_ , I don’t want to deal with figuring out how to write when none of us are talking. I’m tired. I want to go home. I want to see my girlfriend. I want to fucking…think about anything besides trying to make this band work twenty-three hours out of the day.”

Julie huffed out a breath. “Yeah,” she said.

The noise of the crowd grew more restless, cheering and thumping rattling the floor in time to the house music.

“We gotta go,” Alex said. “Before they start rioting.”

Julie sprang to her feet, rolling her shoulders. “All right, guys. One more for the road?”

Luke kicked the small end table across the room. "That's it?" he roared. "After everything?"

They shook their heads, sighing at him.

Alex touched his fingers to his forehead in a salute. "Thanks for your service," he said.

"Guys," Luke said, bouncing on his toes. "This can't be it. It can't be. After everything?"

"Dude," Alex said. "Come on."

"It's been a hard year," Luke said. "But we've been through so much already. This is just another speed bump."

Reggie shook his head. "You can't pep talk us out of this. Are you kidding? After what you pulled?"

"I didn't leave because of the music," Luke said. "We can have the _band_ without losing the music."

Julie shook her head, and Alex sucked his teeth. "I think it's a little too late for that one," Alex said.

"Three against one, man," Julie said. "You're outvoted."

“Let’s kill it,” Reggie said, extending his fist.

Alex and Julie tapped their fists against his.

“No pun intended.”

  
For all that the press has made of their feud, he was the one who fired the first shots. Ahead of his solo debut, in a feature with _The New Yorker_ , hyping his expectations for the future, the music that he wanted to write, they asked him about the bands he’d left behind.

He was never one to mince any words. “There’s always a time when it’s right to move on,” he said, “And the music we were working on and what I wanted to make were different.”

He said, “We were all in it together for so long. But there’s only so many times you can keep showing up for someone who doesn’t want to be there. It’s like a relationship - you can’t be the only person trying to fix it. I was the last one to jump ship, I guess.”

The writer added in a wry note: _It sounds like you’re speaking from experience._

“Let me just say,” he said. “Some things in your life are meant to be lessons you learn from and move on. Hindsight is 20/20.”

  
(Flynn texted her immediately after reading it.

FUCK HIM!, she wrote, with many more exclamation points.)

The last time they talked, it was an after-party or a party after the after-party after an awards show, everyone settling into more comfortable clothes, and somewhere between drunk, wasted, and incomprehensible. He tilted towards the end of the spectrum, his hair sticking up at all angles, his shirt rumpled, tie undone. Part of her ached at the sight of him, wanting nothing more than to reach out and fix him up, than to lend him the weight of her shoulder. But it wasn't her place anymore.

 _He_ wasn't hers anymore, so she turned back towards the crowd, scanning for her date—or, really, Amy and the basketball player of a date that she had scrounged up from her agency contacts.

She expected him to take the out, to walk away before they had to pretend like they’d seen each other or before someone else tried to trigger an introduction for the sake of spilling some tea in a gossip magazine.

Instead, he’d taken the opportunity to come closer, swaying dangerously on his feet as he approached.

“Congratulations,” he said, a hard edge to his voice. His eyes scanned her quickly and he let out a forceful exhale, and she stood with her fingers tight around her clutch, wishing that she had changed. She was still in her gown for the ceremony, a deep red silk dress that cut low in the front, and clung tightly to her silhouette.

“Same to you.”

“Thanks, but _I_ didn’t win,” he said.

She glanced towards the doorway for any recognizable face, but Luke didn’t seem to notice. He shuffled closer until she could smell the alcohol wafting off of him.

“It’s been a while,” he said.

“A little bit,” she said.

"How are you doing?" he said.

She threw up her hands in an awkward half-shrug. "Uh," she said. "Okay, I guess. How about you?"

He squinted, rubbing at his jaw with his palm. Standing this close, she saw the dark circles under his eyes, barely covered under the sheen of concealer, and the exhaustion that he carried in his shoulders. Her fingers fussed with the slick fabric of her skirt to keep from touching him.

“I listened to the album,” he said.

"Oh," she breathed.

He chuckled, a low, bitter noise. "I didn't realize that you were still so... _hurt_ ," he said, sharply. "I didn't realize that when you decided to walk away, that was my fault."

"You think the album is about you?"

He shot her a look. "Who else?"

" _You probably think this song is about you_ ," she sang.

"Funny," he said.

"Not every song is about real life, Luke," she said. "I thought you'd know that better than anyone."

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, draping himself in a half-bow. “You know, I didn’t realize that nobody has the right to say anything to the amazing Julie Molina…”

His voice grew louder, drawing the attention of a few hangers-on around her. She could already see their hands reaching into their pockets, their purses. Reaching for the sleeve of his jacket, she pulled him off to the side with a shush.

“What?” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “I thought you loved dealing with all of this. The _attention_. The acclaim.”

“Keep your voice down.”

"Why?" he said. "Everyone knows by now, right? They know all of our business, they know about Tokyo, they know exactly how much you hated being with me. They know that everything that went wrong was my fault. Even though I called you and called you and called you, and you wouldn't give me a _chance_ , I guess that was on me too. But I guess I should know better, right? Julie Molina's always on to bigger and better things."

"Jesus, Luke," she said. "You're drunk."

He narrowed his eyes, scuffing his shoes against the floor as he listed sharply onto his toes. "What happened to your date?"

She scoffed. “Are you serious right now?”

He forced a smile, his eyes wide and dark with hurt.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win tonight,” she said, with a flash of forced sympathy. “But that's not my fault. Find someone else to talk to about it.”

“I used to think I missed you,” he hissed. “I used to think I couldn’t write without you. I used to think what you and I had was—god, fuck it.”

She took a breath, a dull ache striking between her ribs.

"You were the one that called it off," he said. " _You_ were the one who walked away. After everything. After _everything_. You want to blame me for it, go ahead, but you know exactly what happened."

"I'm sorry it's been so hard on you," she said.

"It isn't," he snapped. "You think that—"

She continued on, refusing to let his interruption break her train of thought. "But _you_ were the one who walked away. Don't get it twisted. You want to blame somebody, Luke, look at how you treated them first. Don't blame me for protecting myself."

He scoffed. "Protecting yourself," he repeated. "From what? I _loved_ you."

Tears rose in her eyes, heat prickling at the back of her throat. "Don't do this," she said. "Not now. I had a really good night."

He took her hand in his own and squeezed it, nearly hard enough to hurt. "I _love_ you," he said. "And you're telling me that's not enough?"

She pulled her hand out of his grasp. "Stop. That's not what this is about," she said.

Retreating a few steps, she turned to make her way towards the ladies room, but he raced after her, grabbing at her wrist and pulling her back to face him. "Tell me that you don't have feelings for me anymore. Look me in the eye and tell me that."

She snapped her hand out of his grasp, shaking her head with a quiet laugh. “You’re sloppy, Luke,” she said, lowering her voice. “Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?”

"You want to tell yourself that you've moved on, and that it doesn't matter anymore," he said, stepping into her space. His shoulder knocked against hers, his head leaning down to whisper in her face. "But I know you, Julie. I know you better than anyone else here, and I know that everything on that album is about things you're holding onto. You want to act like you're bigger than this? Better than this? Why don’t _you_ let it go? Isn’t that what you used to tell me all the time?”

“Why don’t you?” she said.

“I wasn’t the one who broke up the band!” he said.

“And that’s what hurt you the most, right?” she snapped. “Out of everything?”

Heading off towards the opposite side of the room, she lost his answer in the buzz of the crowd.

  
Later, there’s a photo of them together that leaks onto TMZ, him leaning towards her, his hand on her bare arm.

She has a glass of champagne in one hand, her hand on her hip, slouching towards him to hear him better. 

A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE?, the headline reads.  
  


  
It’s a seven hour flight, and her chartered plane gets to leave from the private runway.

She crawls into a window seat with her coffee, and buckles her seat belt as the rest of her staff follow in behind. 

As they ascend into the sky, she watches the west disappear behind her in a blur of motion, and imagines herself flinging back through time. She wonders what she’d tell herself, if there would ever be anything she could have said to have changed anything.

“You doing all right?” Amy says.

Seven hours, she thinks, until the dead are resurrected and sharing the stage with her again.

She closes her eyes and fidgets with the rim of her coffee lid, pretending that she doesn’t hear his voice telling her that it’ll all be okay.

“Yeah,” she says. “Looking forward to it.”

Amy levels her a glance, but Julie’s already turned her head towards the window and the sight of the world disappearing beneath a sheaf of clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All song lyrics by me, except for the line from _You're So Vain_ , which is by Carly Simon and allegedly about Eric Clapton.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience. And thank you to all those of you who have left comments. It actually really does make my day.
> 
> I promise that this will actually get finished. It's taking me forever just to write this out of my head and edit it to a state where it's readable, so I will continue to ask for your patience. 
> 
> And please do leave a comment, if you feel like it.

Rolling Stone, 2030 —

_It is impossible to overstate the infectiousness of Julie Molina’s laugh. Anything and everything can set it off—a pun, a cute animal photo on her phone, or, most likely, the prankster antics of Luke Patterson, her longtime bandmate and lead guitarist in Julie and the Phantoms, with whom she shares six Grammy nominations for 2029’s_ Polaris _._

_As we sit and wait for our coffee and breakfast at Lockeland in downtown Nashville, Patterson choreographs a Busby Berkeley-worthy tableau with the salt and pepper shakers and condiments on the table to the music chiming through the restaurant's speakers, adding his own clumsy dance moves to the mix, sending Molina into periodic giggles that can’t help but make you smile._

_It’s a beautiful summer day by Nashville standards, and Molina dishes on everything they have planned for their ambitious day off. “Total tourist garbage,” she says, grinning. “And someone really wants to go and see the Martin showroom.” Patterson, a renowned gearhead, has his eyes set on a restored 1937 D-28, Molina recounts with an affectionate roll of the eyes.  
_

_“Hey,” Patterson interjects, “I deserve it.”_

_Molina laughs, but it’s hard to disagree with that assessment. By all accounts, the Phantoms have had a bellwether year for any group, with_ Polaris _charting as one of the top-selling albums of the year and racking up nominations and critical acclaim across the board. They’re both in high spirits today, having snagged a rare spate of free time between their next recording or other engagements._

_“Okay, okay, okay,” Molina says, spreading her hands wide over the table. “If you let him keep going, he’s going to talk about guitars all day and I am not about that on my day off.”_

_Together, the duo highlight much of the strengths underlying the success of the Phantoms—strong songwriting, Molina’s rich, hypnotic vocals, Patterson’s avant-garde sensibilities, and a devil-may-care approach to music that lends their work a breezy accessibility. Having recently closed out their latest international tour and somewhat semi-officially announced their partnership at a show in Amsterdam, the two have an amiable chemistry and down-to-earth quality that is remarkably at-ease for two superstar talents of their caliber._

_Has that recent escalation in their relationship changed their working dynamic at all?_

_Patterson grins, snapping his gum at Molina. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Do you think so? Do you feel_ changed _?”_

_She jostles him with her shoulder as she leans forward to answer. “He’s always been like this,” she says, as an aside. “And we’ve always been really comfortable with one another because of our friendship… so it became a really natural progression. And as artists, I think that can only lead to better and stronger collaboration.”_

_“Writing with her is the worst thing in the world,” Patterson deadpans. “She’s impossible. A real diva.”_

_“We ground each other,” Molina adds. “His strengths are not mine, and vice-versa. And that creates a really ripe environment for creative output.”_

_Patterson shrugs, and it’s then that the food arrives—a full breakfast platter for Patterson, and oatmeal, fruit, and biscuits for Molina. He turns his plate as soon as the waitress sets it down, angling the potatoes towards Molina who spoons them onto her plate almost immediately._

_For longtime fans of the Phantoms, the revelation of their personal partnership was less of a surprise than a long-awaited result. Fans around the world took to social media to shower them with congratulations, notching them a coveted spot as a trending hashtag (#juke) around the world. Some even sent the pair gifts. Did that kind of reception impact how they decided to come out with the news?_

_“It wasn’t so much of a decision,” Molina begins, as Patterson snickers over a bite of his breakfast._ _She takes a sip of her coffee, and tries to continue. “It wasn’t so much of a decision, as it was—” Off of his expression, she adds, pointedly, “Luke? You want to tell it?”_

_“It sort of happened,” Patterson says, flatly. “We obviously weren’t thinking about…context.”_

_Molina ducks her head, smiling around a spoonful of potatoes, a picture of bashfulness.  
_

_And has that affected the working dynamics of the band at all?_

_Patterson adamantly shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No. Reggie and Alex are incredibly supportive, and they understand that we know how to separate the personal from the professional. We’re really invested in the process—”_

_“—we’re process people—” Molina adds._

_“—and they know that better than anybody. They’ve seen us when we’re in the middle of it. We’re never going to hype each other’s songwriting if it’s bad or weak just out of a personal commitment.”_

_“Right,” Molina adds. “He’s too ruthless of an editor for that.”_

_Patterson laughs. “I guess I have a reputation…I have a knack…”_

_“It’s a quality that we really admire about one another,” Molina interrupts. “He’s the best editor because he has no filter. If you bring him what you’re working on, it will be like—what are you trying to do with this lyric? This line is too much. He loves to pare it down to basics, I think, because he likes to build up the music instead. It's, like, the ‘70s storyteller in him.”_

_Patterson leans back in the booth, his arm sliding along the top of the vinyl to rest lightly behind her. “Is that a compliment?” he says.  
_

_“When you call what I write ‘trash?’” Molina laughs, turning to look at him. “Yes, sometimes—sometimes it is a compliment.”_

_“She does the same thing to me, though,” Patterson says. “The phrasing’s all wrong. Pick up the rhythm. One of the craziest things about Julie is her ear. She has an insane ear. And I’ve played with some really great bands over the last few years, but she’s able to listen to something once—even a demo, or if we’re just fucking around—and go, ‘Okay, this works, but that doesn’t work, get rid of that, change this.’ Like a savant. It’s unbelievable.”_

_“We started out as creative partners first,” Molina says. “So it's really important to us to respect those boundaries. Especially because we want to be able to walk that line between being a bandmate, a coworker, basically, and something else. Sometimes you have to turn that part of your life off so you can show up and do the work. You know, he knows that when I offer feedback, it’s for the strength of the song. It’s not meant to hurt anyone’s feelings. And if you’re sensitive to that kind of criticism, as a band, we're really good about saying, ‘Okay, can we take a breather, can we take a break, and pause this until we can get in a place where we can discuss it…’ and the boys are all really good at that.”_

_“The boys,” Patterson laughs. “You make us sound like we’re a gang. Julie and the boys.”_

_“Yeah,” she replies. “You kind of are.”_

_But that kind of working relationship requires a great deal of trust._

_“Yeah, of course,” Patterson says. “You can’t write with someone if you don’t trust them. Especially for the songs that we’re writing, you need to have a level of vulnerability there—and really believe that someone is understanding what you’re trying to do and that they’ll be able to meet you there. There has to be a—a—fearlessness…”_

_“A freedom,” Molina adds, as Patterson nods._

_“Freedom and fearlessness to go after something with complete honesty and radical openness. It’s the only way that you’ll be able to see if there’s something valuable there.”_

_“And we all have that trust in one another,” Molina adds. “Reggie, Alex, Luke, and I—we’ve been together for so long that it comes naturally. You know, we started when we were so young and it evolved into this kind of trust and intimacy.”_

_So if they win the Grammys, then what’s next?_

_Molina bats her eyes at Patterson, who grins and takes another bite of his pancake._

_“She’s putting me on the spot here,” Patterson says._

_“Okay,” Molina says, “Since someone is shy. You know, Luke has so many things that he wants to work on and accomplish. He’s so talented. And our goal is always to elevate our sound, you know, to do things that haven’t been done before. How can we tackle new arrangements? How can we create music that pushes us past our comfort zone? That’s one of the things I really admire about The Beatles…”_

_Patterson scoffs, but Molina keeps going._

_“Their commitment to evolving their sound. They never liked to sound the same beyond one or two albums, maybe. And that’s how Luke thinks about music.”_

_“Is that true?” Patterson asks. “That’s how you think about me?”_

_“Neither of us is easily satisfied,” Molina answers, to him as much as to me. “And that’s what keeps our work going. So if we win…”_

_“And we’re definitely going to win,” Patterson says, with a dismissive scoff. “I mean, after we got snubbed for everything last time? The odds…”_

_Molina shushes him, but the bright smile gives her away. It’s difficult to believe that these two won’t be on top of the musical world at some point, recognized for their combined talents—even if Molina is superstitious about preemptively declaring victory._

_“So_ if _we win,” Molina reiterates, more firmly, “I think what we do next will be up to whatever’s ticking in his mind over there, and whatever we feel like we haven’t been able to do yet. You know, there are other bands, other musicians, that we all love or respect or admire and want to learn from, and that I think inspire us to play around and experiment. And some people might complain that we're not making the same kind of music, that Phantoms sound_ _…”_

_“But what is that, really?” Patterson adds. “You know, we came from a traditional rock and roll place, and then, that changed as soon as Jules joined the line-up. She added some r &b, some soul, a lot more pop. Her voice gives us the flexibility to do more. And, you know, Reggie and Julie both have roots in Americana, that folk-country space, and so we wanted to play around there too. There's no one sound for us.”_

_“Exactly,” Molina says. “There are new heights to conquer.”_

_And as for what’s next?_

_“We’ll figure it out one day at a time,” Molina says. “We don’t like to set expectations for ourselves in that kind of way.”_

_Patterson shrugs, giving one of his enigmatic smiles. “We could always get married,” he says, flatly. “Make a whole concept album out of it.”_

_Molina answers him with a hard smack on the arm. "Ignore him. That wasn't a real quote," she says to us. "You can't listen to anything that boy says."_

He’s the first one to touch down in Cleveland.

Reggie and Alex blow up his phone as soon as he lands, sending him rapidfire texts as they board their plane, chatting about nothing. They drank too much at the airport lounge, Alex broke a drumstick while waiting because he was playing with it too much, they spent the time listening to old tracks of theirs and decided that half of their first album wasn’t bad and not everything ages that well. Luke lets the chatter flow through his mind to distract himself from thinking about who else is coming.

There's an itinerary from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation in his email, and he scans through it in the Uber ride to the hotel: rehearsals for the performance, rehearsals for the ceremony, two press availability days, the ceremony, the after-ceremony, and the performance. Michael’s made effective notes by highlighting and leaving comments in the margin like BORING!!! and LEAVE EARLY and FREE DRINKS, which Luke can appreciate in principle, if not in practice.

He marks off the rehearsals, the sound checks, the press days on his calendar. Even if everything goes badly, maybe he can swing some more publicity ahead of the tour. Not that his last album did that badly, but Michael’s right that gold isn’t platinum, and he might as well while he's here. While he has the opportunity.

The hotel he’s at is a couple rungs down from the Ritz, but it isn’t too far from the venue. The room they booked him is a solid suite, comfortable and spacious and luxurious enough without being too in-your-face about it. It’s been a long time since he’s cared about something as stupid as a hotel reservation that he forgets how much it used to matter—the security, the back entrances, the privacy concerns.

Not that any of that matters to him now.

But when they used to stay together, everything became a problem of complicated geography. Finding the back exits, figuring out when she could slink into his room without alerting any of the staff, finding the right times to dodge the paparazzi so they could go out for food or coffee or anything else. What he remembers most is how much they would rely on each other to keep each other sane, hiding from the world inside his room and talking for hours, ordering room service, shutting out anything that wasn't each other. Sometimes he can still picture her, lit in the low light of the early morning, leaning out of bed to pick up his guitar, running through her finger positions while he studied her movements with half-lidded eyes.

He wonders if she's kept up the habit with anyone else. And then he wonders if he shouldn't even be wondering about those kinds of things at all.

Inside his hotel room, there's a gift basket from the Hall of Fame, full of their old merch and branded everything. There's an aluminum water bottle, a throwback _Julie and the Phantoms_ t-shirt, candy, fruits and snacks, CDs of all of their albums, and a handwritten card welcoming him to the great city of Cleveland from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame team. He pokes around at the items in the basket through the plastic and spots an old promotional photo they've used for the poster for the induction event, a young Julie grinning at young Luke, all of them styled in black and violet.

With a sigh, he turns down the covers and yanks open the curtains to catch the last of the daylight spilling out over the water.

He wonders what he's even doing here, why he decided to come in the first place.

He wonders if she’s listened to the song yet, or if it, too, is something that he’s somehow spoiled by touching it.

  
It’s Reggie’s idea to have a catch-up.

 _Just a super casual thing_ , he says. _Super, super cas_ , he says, in the way that means that it's going to be anything but. _So we can get back into the swing of being...you know,_ Julie and the Phantoms.

A chance for them to get the awkwardness out of the way, more like, Luke figures.

He fires off a text agreeing if she’s okay with it, he adds, because he doesn’t want to not give her an out. 

He hasn't been this nervous about seeing her since they first broke up the band. It's funny in its own way, like how a healed wound will start aching again after a decade for no reason at all. 

He doesn't know why he's so nervous when it's never really bothered him before. Not those years he was still navigating his way out of his feelings, not at the awards shows or the industry events when they might have run into each other.

Maybe it’s that there’s no way he can avoid seeing her this time, or talking to her, touching her. Maybe it’s the fact that they have to slip back into their old selves and pretend that even though things have changed, they're also somehow still the same. Maybe it's that he has to play on stage with her for the first time since it all went south and he's never really known how to do that without wanting to get her attention or get close to her, without falling in love with her a little bit.

He's not stupid. He knows that the three of them have all stayed in touch over the years, that they're still as close as they were when the band was still together. He knows that he'll never be able to understand what they went through in Prague or after it, that what he did was enough to bond the three of them together for life, while he tried to find his footing afterward.

After all of the years they spent playing together, after helping each other get through all of the drama with their families, he became another thing that they had to leave behind. But he made a mistake, and they all had to suffer the consequences. Stranded together in the band none of them liked anymore, stuck figuring out how to find the music again after everything, all of them lying to themselves and pretending that they could still play together like nothing was wrong when it was clear that they'd lost it. The trust, the magic, the spark—whatever showed up on camera and on stage that made them something to watch. When it was more than clear that they couldn't stand each other anymore. Chalk it up to a long career, bad blood, another VH1 special, and don't let the door hit you on the way out.

So maybe he made a bad choice, and it took him a year and a half to admit that to himself.

After Tokyo, the silences stretched longer and thicker, growing cold with all of the things they never said. All he wanted in those years after was to figure out a way to turn back the clock, to return to the days in the garage when all they did was play music and argue about what they wanted to do.

After Tokyo, he couldn't even bring himself to care about the music anymore. He just wanted them back.

It took the boys six months to forgive him.

(She never did.)

It took the break-up of the band and his scraping rock bottom, it took none of them knowing how to move forward with music after Julie, took them hiding out from the world in semi-retirement, took them jamming out at his house or Reggie's or Alex's and remembering what they liked about each other in the first place. It took him rewinding through the last ten years, the last fifteen, until they felt like they were sixteen and jamming out in his parents' garage again, him lying through his teeth about taking the SATs so that they could go and play for a spot opening for some heavy metal band at a club where they would have been too young to make it past the door.

It took the reunion of Sunset Curve (II).

It took him writing an album full of things he couldn't tell her, and that album scraping by, and him finally feeling like he had laid some of those ghosts to rest.

It took a _lot_ of alcohol.

And it wasn't until after all of that happened that things resettled into a kind of balance.

He knows that, by all accounts, she’s doing better than she ever was, doing better than any of them ever did, topping chart after chart, rumored to be dating some thirty-something Hollywood actor angling hard for an Oscar. Everything about her life has been forward motion, and he’s been circling the pool out west, trying to build himself back into the kind of person he wanted to be at seventeen, making the kind of music that he always wanted to make.

Reggie shoots him another text: _5.45, don’t be late. the bar at the ritz. reggie says relax!!!!!!!_

Alex is calmer: _don't overthink it. reg and i will be there too._

He thinks about asking Reggie if she told him anything about the song, but he manages to hold back. He can steel himself to hear it from her directly.

He always could about the music.

  
The first thing he hears when he heads through the automatic doors is her ringing laugh, and he knows he’s the last one here.

Reggie and Alex leap to their feet when he rounds the corner, clapping their arms around him and leading him back to their private room. She stands when he approaches, and he feels the air slowly sink out of the room, the ghost of a punch landing against his stomach until it feels like he can’t breathe.

She looks good.

She’s always looked good, but—she looks _really_ good, her hair a mass of thick curls that have been smoothed and tucked behind her ears with pins. She’s in a denim jumpsuit that tracks along the line of her body, pinned in at the waist to highlight her long legs, her broad shoulders. A small loop of gold necklace hangs around her neck, decorated with fine stars.

He licks his lips and takes a seat across from her. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she says, sinking back into her seat and reaching for the stem of her glass. It’s a martini, half-empty, a toothpick skewered with olives nibbled on. He wouldn't have figured her for the martini type, but maybe that's what happens to people after a thing like this. You just stop knowing someone.

“Well,” Reggie says. “Isn’t it nice to have the band back together.”

Alex kicks his shin from under the table.

“Talk,” Alex says. “Use your words.”

Julie lifts a finger, signaling them to wait, and then rummages through her handbag before she pulls out the tape and sets it in the center of the table.

Reggie wrinkles his brows. "Tonight is not about shop talk, ma'am," he intones. "I thought I made that clear."

"Relax," Julie says.

“You want a drink or something, man?” Alex says to him, at the same time. “How was your flight?”

“It was all right,” he says. “Jules—”

And there’s no missing her wince.

“It’s, uh, it’s good to see you,” he finishes, quietly.

“Thanks for sending the song,” she says. “Did the Foundation ask you to write something for the set?”

He shakes his head. “I just thought…it might be nice to have something new to commemorate…the occasion.”

“All right,” Alex interjects. “You guys are acting weird, so—Luke, what do you want to drink?”

He shrugs. “What’d you have?”

“Patron,” he says.

“Just get me a Crown,” he says. “Straight.”

Alex nods. “Reg,” he says. “You coming?”

Reggie lays his hand on her shoulder. “If anything goes wrong, just shout,” he says.

She chuckles, a low rasp of a laugh. “Will do, boss,” she says.

And then they’re sidling out the side, and it’s just the two of them alone, sitting and watching the ice in the empty drink glasses slowly melt.

She lays her hands on the table, fingers lacing together, and he lets out a soft breath at seeing her hands clean of any rings. “How are you?” she says, gamely.

He nods. “This is weird,” he says. “Don’t you think this is weird?”

She leans back. “Yeah, but we both agreed to do it.”

He rocks forward in his seat, his foot tapping hard against the floor as he searches for something to say. "I'm all right. How've you been?"

Her hand reaches for the glass and she takes a measured sip. "I'm doing all right," she says. "Been a busy year."

"I was surprised you agreed to come," he says.

"Why?" she says, her fingers tightening around the glass.

He shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "After everything, I just thought you might want some...distance."

"It's an event celebrating everything that we've done," she says. "For the fans. You thought I was going to miss it?"

"No, I didn't mean..." he starts. "I mean, I wasn't sure what you were still—I didn't want what happened between us to..."

She waves her hand. “It’s—we don’t need to revisit the past.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I was thinking.”

She hums, low in her throat, and drains the rest of her martini. The column of her throat is a long graceful line in the air, and he clenches his hands down at his sides, wishing that he had a drink for something to do with his hands. “Yeah,” she says. “I think that’s for the best.”

“Julie,” he says.

She flags the waitress and the cocktail glasses are swept off the table and onto a tray, and carried away. “I know that they want to do a good thing here,” she says. “And I don’t know what they told you or what you expect, but—we’re just here to do a job. We’re here to play our set, figure that out, and then go our separate ways. We don’t have to fix what isn’t broken anymore.”

“I'm not trying to fix anything,” he says.

"Good."

"But I can't say I haven't been thinking about everything that...happened," he says. "With the band. With, you know—how it all went down. And, I mean, at the time—"

"Luke."

"I just wanted to say that there's a lot that I wish..." he starts.

She forces a smile. “This is what I mean,” she says. “You don’t need to say anything. It’s all done. We’re not in a band anymore. We’ve moved on.”

“Have you?” he says, stealing a glance at her face.

She sags back against the vinyl of the booth and scratches lightly at her hairline. “Luke,” she says, faintly warning.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Stop _saying_ that.”

“I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“But I just wanted to…”

“To what?” she bites. “It’s been five years. You want to clear the air _now_?”

“I don’t want to fight,” he says.

“Great,” she says. “I don’t either.”

And then it's back. The familiar, tense silence of the late years of the band that stood in for all the talking they once used to do, the sullen stretch of time that spoke of how comfortable they used to be sharing everything with one another.

“Did you like the song?” he asks, after a long beat.

She scoffs a quiet laugh and drums her nails against the cassette. “The harmonies are nice,” she says, after a beat. “Four-part is new for you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “When I was working with the choirs, they were helping me to think about it in new ways.”

“But you’ve got too much distortion coming through from the guitars,” she says. “You're way too heavy on the reverb. Not everything has to sound like it’s getting pushed through a strainer. Some of the noise is okay, but too much and it starts getting mangled.”

“What’d you think of the melody?”

She shrugs. “I want to play around with it a little more,” she says. “You tried to write the piano part like I would.”

He gives a sheepish smile. “That obvious?”

The corners of her mouth lift, showing a sliver of a genuine smile. “I haven’t written like that since the second album,” she says. “But piano’s not your strong suit.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Anything else?”

“I like the drum machine,” she says. “And the bass is killer.”

“That’s all Reg,” he says.

“I figured,” she says, with a smile, “He’s telling me that he misses writing serious stuff.”

“So how's everything else?” he says. “I heard about the—well, I watch tv, I guess. I see you around.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m keeping busy.”

“Congratulations, by the way,” he says. “I hear _Runners on First_ is doing incredible.”

“Thanks,” she says. “You too. _Be On Your Way_ did okay too, I heard?”

“We don’t…we don’t have to talk about it,” he says.

Reggie and Alex finally make their way back, producing his drink with a flourish of the hand before they set it down in front of him, and sliding Julie her next martini.

She takes it and drains it down in a single gulp.

Reggie and Alex share a look before turning to him with the quiet threat of a schoolteacher.

Julie brightens when they’re back, and she shifts forward on her seat, turning the full beam of her smile on them. “You sure took a while,” she says.

“Had to make sure that nobody poisoned your drink,” Reggie says. “You know how your fans can be.”

“Shut up,” she laughs. It’s a brash, booming sound, and he feels something start inside of him. A pang of an old wound waking up again.

The next day, he’s just looking forward to getting his hands on a guitar and getting to rehearsal. It’s been years since he’s played any of the old songs, and he imagines that his fingers, his voice, the rest of them will have a hard time finding their way back to the old sound. Part of him is antsy at the idea of sharing a stage with her again, having her less than six feet away from him, singing alongside him.

He picks up the largest coffee he can find, shovels down two spoonfuls of the sickly-looking scrambled eggs at the continental breakfast in his hotel lobby, and heads towards the Hall of Fame. 

Their equipment is already set up in the ballroom main stage when he arrives, all of it glistening and gleaming with their old logo and art. He exhales when he sees it, the sight of it dragging him back. With a steeling breath and a long sip of coffee, he heads towards the ballroom stage.

“You can’t bring drinks up here,” one of the techs says, and he nods.

Setting his coffee down on the floor in front, he sprints up onto the stage and reaches for his guitar. He fusses with the tuning and switches the amp on, playing through the first few bars of a song off of his latest album.

“Weird,” Alex says, walking in, “I don’t remember that one.”

“Hey,” he greets.

Reggie trickles in after him, yawning and wiping at his face with his hand. “You’re here early.”

Luke runs through the next few bars, humming the lines to warm up his voice.

“You need a warm up,” Reggie says.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he says.

"Not warming up?" Reggie offers.

Luke rolls his eyes.

"You might want to try _a scale_ ," Alex says, draining the rest of his espresso.

He joins him on the stage soon after, sliding to sit behind the drum kit and giving the pedal a few experimental kicks. Low drum beats rattle through the empty space. 

Julie comes through twenty minutes later, tossing off casual apologies as they hear the clamor of photographers outside. She’s in a ruffled flower dress that’s more summer than makes sense for how brisk it is outside, but Luke figures when your every move is caught on camera, maybe it makes sense to dress for the occasion. 

“You all look ready to go,” she says, slowly walking up the risers towards the stage. “You warmed up?”

Reggie and Alex exchange a look.

Julie laughs. “Right,” she says. “I forgot about that.”

Luke waves his hand. “Come on,” he mumbles around a pick. “We can run through _Crooked Teeth_.”

  
It takes them fifteen minutes to make it out of the first verse.

Reggie has their sheet music pulled up on some music site, laughing as he runs through the bass line, nodding to himself and scribbling notes on a piece of scrap paper. Julie’s perched on a stool at the front of the stage, staring straight ahead at nothing, while he keeps trying to figure out how to harmonize with her new phrasing.

“You have to tell me what you’re going to do,” he says. “I can’t find the cues if your runs go too long.”

Julie huffs. “I’m not doing anything different,” she says. “If you’re having trouble keeping up with the tempo, then that’s on you.”

“Are you signaling me?”

“What is this, band camp?” she snaps. “Yeah, I’m signaling you. Can you follow along or can’t you?”

“All right,” Alex says. “We’re not getting anywhere. Maybe we change to something we all know a little better? _Bright_?”

Luke wrinkles his nose. “We have a short set, and we’re going with _Bright_?”

“It’s just rehearsal,” Alex says.

“What’s wrong with _Bright_?” Julie says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing’s wrong with _Bright_. I fucking wrote _Bright_. I just don’t think we should make space for it if all we have is a short set.”

"You're not the only person who gets to put together the set," Julie says.

"I didn't say that I was," Luke says. "I'm saying it doesn't make sense for us to rehearse it right now, and maybe we should pick something else."

"What difference does it make?" she says. "It's rehearsal."

Alex rolls off a loud, sharp cadence against the snare that rolls through the room, stunning them all into a brief silence. “Shut up,” he says. “Everybody shut the fuck up. We’re not fighting about the set list right now. We’re rehearsing _Bright_. Executive decision by me, the executive. All right?”

Julie nods, moving to take a seat at the keyboard. Alex gives her the count-off, and she rolls right into the intro. But as soon as she starts playing, Luke can tell something's off. Rising from his position on stage right, he beelines straight for her, shaking his head.

“You’re slowing it down,” he says.

She ignores him and keeps playing, her voice leading into the verse. She sings through, pitch-perfect, but her phrasing hangs long on some of the vowels, shifting off the rhythm. 

“You’re slowing it down,” he says, picking his way along with her.

She shakes her head, waving him off as they head into the pre-chorus. 

He marches to stand in front of the keyboard, playing the chords deliberately at his tempo as he mouths the lyrics a beat and a half ahead of her. 

She rises from the bench, her eyes meeting his in a glare, shoulders squaring. “ _Life is a risk but I will take it, close my eyes and jump_ …” she sings at him, stomping her feet against the floor to match her time. “ _Together I think that we can make it, come on, let’s run…_ ”

“What’s Alex playing?” he whispers, tweaking through a guitar riff.

She explodes into the chorus. “ _And rise, through the night, you and I_ …”

“ _We will fight to shine together_ ,” he harmonizes.

She stops with a discordant slam of the keys. “You don’t come in on the chorus until after the second verse,” she says. "Or don't you remember?"

“Oh, I remember it fine," he says. "I just thought that since you were treating it like a cover, I could come in whenever the hell I wanted."

She rolls her eyes. “Just because you listened to it for the first time in years last week doesn’t mean that we have to perform it like it plays on the album.”

“I appreciate that you’ve got your signature style and everything now, and you can do whatever you want on the Julie Molina show,” he says, “But that’s not how the Phantoms sound.”

“If you have a problem with my phrasing—”

“—I do—”

“—then why don’t you try following my tempo instead of playing the up-beat?”

“If I’m keeping the right tempo, then it’s not the up-beat…”

They’re interrupted with a sudden rumble of bass as Reggie picks his way through a repeating riff. He starts scatting his best Freddie Mercury impression over the line as Alex rattles the cymbal.

“Very funny, guys,” Luke says.

“ _Pushing down on me_ ,” Reggie yowls.

“ _Pressing down on you_ ,” Alex joins.

“ _No man ask for_ ,” they finish.

Julie sighs. “Don’t reinvent the wheel here, Luke.”

“It’s not that I can’t follow you,” he says, “I do know how to play music, believe it or not. You're playing the wrong tempo. It doesn’t work at that speed. You’re killing the momentum.”

“Stop it,” Alex says. “God. Before I put the two of you in timeout. It’s _Bright_. It’s not going on the set-list. You don’t need to kill each other over a song that neither of you want to play.”

Julie runs a hand through her hair with a frustrated growl.

“We’re just a little…rusty,” Reggie says, diplomatically. “And that’s why we rehearse.”

With a forced smile, Julie races down the risers towards her bag, reaching into it for her phone.

“What are you doing?” Luke says. “Are you bailing?”

Spinning on her heel to face him, she flashes him a perky smile. “No,” she says. “I’m not the kind to do that.”

He clenches his jaw. “Okay,” he says. “So?”

She taps on her phone a few times and turns it around, and then they hear the dreaded sound of the wood block.

“God,” Alex groans. “Fuck you both. Honestly.”

The metronome counts on.

“It’s 4/4,” Julie says. “Anyone have a problem?”

"You have _many_ problems," Alex mutters.

Reggie shakes his head. “That’s not going to help you with tempo.”

“Alex can set the tempo,” she says, gesturing towards him.

Alex grunts with irritation, slamming his foot against the pedal in quick succession. “I already do!” he says, clicking his drumsticks together. “Or can’t anybody hear this anymore?”

“Forgot what it was like to rehearse with you,” Julie mutters, hopping up the risers towards the stage.

“Back at you,” he snaps, turning and marching towards the door.

“Are you leaving?” she says.

“I’m taking a walk,” he shouts, pushing his way out of the ballroom.

She hisses through her teeth in annoyance. "Don't forget to come back this time."

She always knew exactly how to get him off-balance. 

He always thought of her as his compass, a guide to lead his life when he was turned the wrong way, paying attention to the wrong thing, but he forgets how the power can run both ways—how that means she knows exactly the right ways to throw him off. Some days, he thinks that she must be doing it on purpose, that no matter how far apart they are in the world, she still knows exactly the power she holds over him. And some days, he thinks that it’s just because she’s Julie, and she’s always known him better than just about anyone else in the world.

Like in the weeks after her debut album had come out and she’d gone to do press, talking out the sides of her mouth about the album’s inspiration and how it was a metaphor for disconnection. It was just another story in a sea of stories, she said, and it was one that she had to write her way out of. Like she convinced anybody that she wasn’t telling the story of what had gone wrong in Tokyo. 

(Of course he listened to her every track.

Of course he bought it the day that it came out.

Of course he played the record in his house, wearing out his speakers, until it felt like she really did haunt his house, until it seemed like her voice would chase him through the rest of his life.)

Not that he had helped matters with his own album. He hadn’t been smart enough to hide anything, and so he wrote about nothing, filling the tracks with experimental sounds and repurposed poetry, with the refurbished skeletons of dead songs that he had decided to retire a long time ago. What they wanted was the Luke Patterson of _Julie and the Phantoms_ , the one who could charm and flirt and smile at every face in the crowd because he was only ever trying to make her smile. And he couldn’t tell them that he didn’t know how to be that person anymore, that he had somehow lost him when he made a break for Jamaica and left the rest of his life behind.

But he couldn’t stop looking at that life either. The life that he could have had, the life that he could have shared with her.

He couldn’t stop watching her star rise, couldn’t stop tracking her through her transition from lead singer to solo star to one of the most famous women in the world with her own line of dolls and a couple appearances in some mediocre Christmas movies. And when she started showing up in the tabloids and in the gossip magazines with a bright smile and a handsome new actor on her arm—Julie Molina Gives Up the Ghost!, said Us Weekly—he couldn’t do anything but grind his teeth and lie awake in bed, wondering about whether he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

And the thing was that he still wanted her to win, to be happy, to do everything that she set her heart on. But he couldn’t get rid of that weight in his chest whenever he saw her on tv, on a billboard, passing by on the side of a bus.

He still can't escape his memories of that last night—his duffel bag lying open on the ottoman in the hotel room, her hair splayed out against the cream silk of the pillow, arms still outstretched towards where he had been laying moments earlier. If he could explain it to himself, he would; but at the time, all he knew was that it had been the only way for him to make his life make sense.

He spent ten minutes sitting and watching her sleep, his fingertip tracing lightly against her hairline, wondering if he was making the right choice. (And he still wonders what would have happened if he actually made the _right_ choice instead.)

But the world then seemed broken so cleanly into two parts—one for the taking, one for the leaving—and he believed that she would understand what he was doing. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, for whatever that was worth.

Not that intention meant anything. Not then and not now.

All he could do now was watch as Julie kept going without him, with the world as invested in her moving on as she was. Everywhere, they tweeted endlessly of the #couplegoals that she had with Jonah Klain, shared photos of them on the news, in the magazines, on social media. And in every photo, he couldn’t lie to himself—she looked happy. Really and truly happy. Glowing with a peace that he hadn’t seen on her in—well, years, by then.

Reggie and Alex wouldn't talk to him about it at all. They talked around the shape of her, even if they dropped heavy hints about how the two of them should try to reconnect, should try to patch up whatever bad blood was still brewing between them.

(He never did tell them what happened when he called from overseas. If he thinks about it, he figures it's not really his story to tell.)

But now, it seemed like the story of Julie’s life belonged to the rest of the world, and he was the only one left out.

  
If he’s being honest with himself, he lost the music in those first few months. With Reggie and Alex pissed at him and only answering him when necessary, without Julie, he couldn’t figure out how to think about music, much less hear it. They were too caught up in it. Every time he sat down to try to work on something, all he could hear was her laugh, her singing the scales, her hovering over him trying to make notes in the margins of something he wanted to finish. She had been part of his writing process and, without her, he didn’t know how or where to start.

It didn’t help that she had changed herself so dramatically, determined to shape herself into something else that he couldn’t touch. And he couldn’t lie—her new music was good, built out of the strengths of her voice, shaped by other writers and other producers to slide her into a whole new genre. She was leaving him behind, and all that he had to show for it was an apartment empty of everything but his old memories, her latest records, and space.

That summer, he drank more than he cared to admit, more than he liked to share with Alex and Reggie. He drank alone and he drank in the mornings and he drank at night, and he drank while he watched her on tv, clinging to the arm of her new _whatever_ and smiling for Mario Lopez about the dog that they hoped to get. In the back of his head, he heard dimly the song that they were working on before everything went bad. In the back of his head, he imagined himself turning back at the end of the hallway, before the elevator slid into place, and returning to spend one more night with her.

Maybe that would have made the difference—that one extra night. Maybe she would have held him and told him that they could have made it through the tour intact. Maybe he would have listened. Maybe he would have trusted her and her voice. Maybe he would have trusted himself to tell her the truth without running. But then, what would he have had to show for it? Not this new studio and new house, not this new emptiness, not this new pain in his chest and an album picked apart by Vulture for being insipid, tired, and entirely too derivative of Joy Division.

That summer, he drank while the ghost of her watched him, her eyes wide and sad as he last saw them, as he last heard her on his call from Jamaica. She sat with him, her hair down and loose as it always was when she wasn’t performing, and watched as he scrolled through their old messages, their old photos, their old life. She watched him as he drank shot after shot until the edges of the world blurred, until he could almost convince himself that she was real. She listened as he laid back on the floor and sang pieces of an old apology that maybe he never sent, and she laid down next to him like she used to when they were writing. He could almost hear her singing. He could almost feel the soft rise and fall of her breathing next to him, her hand warm against his arm as she grazed his side.

That summer, he asked for her forgiveness more times than she could count.

But she wasn't there to hear it.

She was hundreds of miles away in her new house in the Hills, with her new boyfriend, getting styled for some new project or new person, grinning for the camera and talking about how excited she was to be moving on to the next chapter of her life.

One without him.

One where she’d be better off.

  
By the time he makes it back to the ballroom, he has a fresh carton of coffee in hand and a paper bag full of snacks. Julie Molina could be many things— simultaneously snacking and angry was never one of them. When he makes it through the doors, Alex is playing through pieces of their songs in an awkward medley while Reggie, lying on the stage, cracks jokes.

Julie’s standing in the corner, her phone pressed to her ear, whispering furiously.

“Yo!” Reggie calls. “That was longer than five minutes.”

He sets the container of coffee down heavily against one of the risers. “I got coffee,” he says. “God knows we all need it.”

Reggie laughs. “Only if there’s something to spike it with.”

Alex hops up from behind the drums and sidles out towards the edge of the stage. “Yeah, I’ll take some,” he says. “Thanks.”

Julie sighs from across the room and turns, walking towards them. “What’s this?” she says.

“I got coffee,” he says, holding the paper bag out towards her.

She doesn’t say anything, but gamely takes the bag from his hand. Unfolding it, she peers inside. 

“And some croissants,” he says. “And macarons.”

She tears a piece of a croissant off with a pinch of her fingers and shoves it in her mouth. “Mmm,” she hums, around the bite. “This is really good.”

“Consider it a peace offering,” he says.

“Thanks,” she says.

“So,” Reggie says, voice hitching up, “I'm guessing you didn’t get any for us?”

Luke clears his throat. "I couldn't carry it," he says.

"Yeah," Reggie says. "Right."

“Are we ready to rehearse now, kids?” Alex says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He takes a nervous sip and sighs.

“Yeah, teach,” Luke cracks. “We’ll behave now.”

He never could stand it when she was mad at him.

He was always the kind of kid inclined to poke at a healing scab, and that's what it's always been like with the two of them. She used to complain that he never gave her the space to be angry before he was trying to get back into her good graces, to fix whatever had broken between them.

He never knew how to tell her that she was always his kind of barometer for goodness—that she makes him believe in a world where things can get better, where light can shine through the darkest places, and where endings can become beginnings of a different kind. She makes him sentimental, and he's not used to being sentimental.

If he thinks about it, maybe that's why he dragged out trying to fix them for so long, why he kept trying even when she made it clear that there was no hope. She had always been the last voice ringing out, the one to push him to try again, to try one more time, to try something different, whether it came to music or to anything else that he wanted to do. And after Prague, he couldn't believe that it was all over, that he had spoiled it by going after something thoughtlessly, carelessly, absentmindedly, like he did with most things.

He always believed that there would be a way to turn it around if he could only find it, a way to remind her of how good they were together, of what they could accomplish as a team. He never figured that she held grudges as well as anybody else, that the thing that separated Julie Molina from other people in the world was how long it took her to get to that point, that she believed in someone with all of her heart, fought for them with all of her might, until she couldn't do it anymore.

He never thought he could reach that point until he did, like Wile E. Coyote running off of a cliff and only realizing it four seconds into mid-air.

But before he did the unforgivable, before he broke things beyond repair, he used to consider himself pretty decent at coaxing forgiveness out of her. He knew her favorite things, knew her comforting routines, knew when he had crossed a line that was bigger than she was letting on. Julie's always been quiet about her needs until she's in a bad place, and he learned to read her like he did music, figuring out the cadences of when things were in flow and when they weren't.

For the little things, there was always food. She's always loved sweets of all kinds—brownies, cakes, and cookies—and a little treat whenever she was feeling run-down or irritated did a lot to smooth things over.

For the bigger things, it was enough to listen to her and to hear what she wanted. Sometimes, it was a matter of finding a gift—a little light to break up an otherwise gloomy day—or just about making the time and the space to hold her and remind her that she wasn't alone in the world, that she had her people and that they would be there for her no matter what. (That he would be there whenever she needed him, no matter what. That he would drop everything for her if she asked.)

And for the biggest things, the days when she would shut people out because she didn't know how to let them in, it was enough to float around her orbit, to keep an eye on her and remind her that he was nearby if she needed, but that he would respect how much space she wanted to take for herself. Those days were the hardest (for him, for Flynn, for anyone who cared about her), to see her sink back into herself and lose herself in the silence again, in the weight of her emotions, in all of the problems that she refused to unburden onto other people.

She's always had a problem with letting others carry the weight, always believed that she can tote the entire load herself, that nothing can stop her if she works hard enough, digs deep enough. She's never liked to recognize her own limits. Unless he asks her to. Unless he reminds her to slow down and to take some time for herself.

Some days, he thinks that he worked harder for her forgiveness than he worked at anything else—not forgiveness with his parents, not the work he did on himself, not the work he did with Alex and Reggie.

Some days, he wonders if working for her forgiveness wasn't a way for him to return the favor—to remind her of everything that she deserved, everything that she was worth, to show her that her happiness was worth prioritizing.

And maybe he went about it the wrong way, but he could say that about basically everything in his life by now.

(And maybe part of him wanted to chase her away because he believed she deserved better.)

  
Afterward, as they’re packing up and heading out for the day, she calls out at him as he’s halfway to the door. Nodding her head towards the side, she leads him through the side door and into the hallway. “Thanks for picking that up today,” she says. “I’m surprised that you still remember.”

He doesn’t say that there’s very few things about her that he’s forgotten. He doesn’t tell her that he can still remember how she takes her coffee, which side of the bed she likes to sleep on, and how she looks when she first wakes up in the morning. What he says is, “I know this isn’t exactly what you were hoping to deal with.”

She smiles at him, and it’s just as light as he remembers. “Look,” she says. “I know today wasn't great, but…like everything else, it just takes getting used to, I guess. But I appreciate what you did this morning.”

“Listen,” he says. “If you don’t want to do the song that I wrote, I understand. I wrote it for us—I mean, for the band.”

“I know what you meant,” she says.

“But if you want to fix it, I’m more than okay with that,” he says. “We always wrote together, and that’s how we can handle this. I mean, if you want.”

“It’s not writing together unless we’re actually writing together,” she says.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You’d want to do that?”

The look she shoots him is so familiar, he nearly starts laughing. She’s all exasperation, the familiar wrinkle in the center of her forehead tipping her off. “Luke,” she says, flatly. “It’s one song. Relax.”

He grins, all nerves, and rubs his hands together. “Yeah,” he says. “But it’s been a while.”

She shrugs. “Something for the fans,” she says. “Why not?”

He extends a hand. “Shake on it,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, a smile pulling at her mouth anyway. “All these years and you never changed,” she says. “It’s insane.”

Her hand slips into his and gives it a firm squeeze. His skin feels exposed and electric, his spine a line of raw nerves.

  
She’s always been a better writer than she’s ever gotten credit for. A better writer than him most days, and probably one of the best writers he's ever worked with, if he’s being honest. He’s always loved playing around with the sonic landscape, painting in the empty canvas with noises and rhythms and riffs, but she loves to build works from the ground up. Since he’s stopped writing with her—since she’s gone solo, since they’ve stopped speaking—he’s taken to listening to her songs and picking them apart, listening for the parts that he thinks she’s written against the bits he thinks other people have added on.

Reggie and Alex like to give him shit about it, but he was always a better songwriter when she was around. He remembers when they were stuck on the last four songs for the third album and staying at her loft, going back and forth between the song they were writing, the sound they were going for, the instruments they were using. It was before they had decided what the album was intended to sound like, before they realized that they were living together, before they were comfortable saying how they really felt about each other.

It was early days when they were tiptoeing around everything that they didn’t want to say, and so they wrote it into songs instead. He remembers those days of burning through drafts faster than they could find things to salvage, little scraps of paper that dissolved themselves around her apartment and hid away behind appliances, underneath the furniture, until they scrounged up at the oddest times.

He remembers her threatening to throw his guitar in the backyard, her frantic collapse into _Piano Man_ whenever she was feeling particularly frustrated with the direction that he was giving her. They spent almost a gig of his phone space on their voice memos alone. But it had been one of the most productive writing sessions of his life, her standing behind him backseat writing, chomping on some snack and heckling him for his choices while he fussed around on the piano.

 _That’s the most obvious key change in the world_ , she would crow, bumping at his shoulder while she glanced at his notes. 

_It’s impossible to read your handwriting, do you know that? It’s amazing we ever know what key we’re supposed to be in at all._

_If you’re going to do that kind of chromatic shift, you’ve got to build the chords on to go with it._

He’d always groan and make a face about it, but she would always turn out to be right.

  
He's never found a way to tell her, but _Shirtsleeves_ is one of his favorite songs of hers. One of his favorite songs of the last decade, probably.

It’s an avalanche of a power ballad, and one of the best songs he’s ever heard that leaves nothing on the table. It starts slow, her vocals bare and hollow, before the instruments drop in one at a time, building into a symphonic crescendo. Piano followed by bass followed by synth followed by drums followed by orchestral strings followed by a shocking lick of electric guitars followed by the final crash of brass horns. 

He still remembers the chills he got when he first heard it, the shiver of goosebumps along his neck as she collided into the chorus, her voice set to reverb, layering on itself until she became a chorus in her own right, singing eight-part dissonant harmonies that make her sound like she’s ethereal, rising out of the earth and out of her body.

_and how you used to tease me, leave me_   
_tearing me apart, shards of body from bone_   
_o, ye who entered, ye who fled for greener pastures_   
_but i’m not alone, i’m not alone, i’m not alone_   
_driven back to hollows of what i once believed_   
_abandoned here with nothing left but shirtsleeves_

He covered it once at a gig out in Red Rocks while touring his second album. Dripping sweat after his main set, he’d come out for the encore and taken a seat at the piano to the shouts and cheers of the audience. He hadn’t played the song very much before, but he'd listened to it so much that he felt he could pinpoint where they had overlaid the audio tracks. 

It was a song that was hard in its simplicity, but he stripped it down and started playing. What he remembers is being so nervous that he couldn’t stop his leg from kicking double-time to the rhythm, that he could hear perfectly the crash of her seven-part vocals in his head as he slid into the chorus of the song. He remembers the ripple of shock that rushed around the amphitheater when they realized what song it was, the cheers that rose up from the back like a wall of sound.

He leaned into the drama of the song, exaggerating the roughness of his voice as he slid out of the verse and into the chorus. And at the end, he remembers the other band members coming out, crashing into the line of his piano with their electric guitars, with the whine and noise that exploded into the song with blood and teeth. 

And he nearly couldn’t breathe at the end, her words hanging from the end of his tongue as the instruments died away and he finished the song alone.

_and won’t you tell me what still ails you_   
_won’t you tell me how i failed you_   
_won’t you say you’re cutting out_   
_i’m cutting out i’m cutting out won’t you_   
_cut me out of your shirtsleeves_

The crowd that night was electric, rocking along with him while he sang, rising into a standing ovation as he finished. He remembers the first row of women in the standing area, their bodies thrown forward against the grates, crying and singing along with him. He remembers the goosebumps that broke out along the base of his neck, the insides of his arms, when he started singing the bridge, the way that he felt possessed by the spirit of her, of them, while he was singing.

And as the stage lights came down and he sat there, his fingers curled against the keys, panting in the dark, he couldn't help but think of her writing it, of her drawing the line in the sand and telling herself that it had been enough, that the years they'd had together weren't worth all of the trouble. He remembers sitting and breathing it in, the subdued energy of the crowd, the anger in her writing, and feeling his heart break all over again.

He remembers the song as an apology.

That night, he takes dinner alone in his hotel suite with the terrace door open to feel the autumn breeze. It's a little sad sight of a scene, a bag of Five Guys leaking grease onto the hotel desk while he has the TV playing nothing he's paying attention to. But it's nice weather today and the fries are a little too salty but in the way that he likes, and they managed to get through one rehearsal without killing each other.

He's trying not to think about her, not to think about how they left it, but it isn't working, so he turns his restlessness to other things.

On the local ABC affiliate, they're doing a report about their induction into the Hall of Fame, and there's an old backstage photo of the four of them after one of the Grammys—one of the ones where they actually _won_ —hugging each other and jumping around. They look so young, all of them baby-faced and glowing with how happy they are, and he and Julie are leaning against one another, their awards stacked in their palms, grinning for the cameras. Even then, he thinks, you can already see how much he was in love with her. Even before he figured out the words for it.

He carefully rips open the bag and starts picking at the fries, setting aside the burger for later when he's actually hungry. If it gets cold, it gets gross, but he's not actually in the mood to eat. Just in the mood for something to free up his hands.

He steals a look at his phone, sitting face-down on the mattress.

He wonders if she actually meant it—writing together.

Maybe for other people it means less than it does for the two of them, but he can't imagine them writing without it taking them back to where they were years ago, to arguing and fighting about the music because they didn't know how to argue and fight about themselves. Or, even further back, to talking about the music because they didn't know how to talk about themselves. That's the problem with finding something as a go-between: sooner or later, you need to actually have the conversation, or you'll break the thing that connects you. And the two of them, talented as they are, they managed to do both.

On good days, he likes to think that he's moved on—that the music that he's writing, the women that he's seen, the way that he thinks about his life proves that he isn't living with one foot in the past anymore.

On bad days, it's all he can think about, the what-ifs and the questions of his life that he's never been able to answer.

Today was a good day, he thinks, but it wasn't really a good day. They're together for the first time in years and it's giving them all a kind of vertigo, he figures, reminding them of how things used to be. And maybe they'll figure it out and maybe they won't, but the possibility of having an opportunity shines brighter than any of them ever imagined. Like fool's gold.

Reggie and Alex told him it'd be worth a shot, told him that they would be there to help buffer the situation, but he doesn't know that they're having any better luck keeping a clear head than he is.

It's a powerful thing to suddenly be confronted with the path that you didn't choose years ago.

It's a powerful thing to have to look at the past, and figure out whether you'd make the same choice now that you did years ago.

And hasn't he always been a sucker for second chances?

He taps his foot against the floor, and dives into the burger.

He doesn't think about her offer.

(He doesn't.)

  
She texts him that night: _did you still want to write_

She texts him: _tomorrow, before rehearsal_

So she never did change her number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Reggie riffs on is _Under Pressure_ by Queen & Bowie. Joy Division is a real band. Mario Lopez is a real person. Cleveland is a real town (that I have never been to, so if I messed up the layout, sorry about that), and Red Rocks is a real place. The Martin Guitar showroom is a real place, though I've also never been. 
> 
> Everything else is basically fake.
> 
> I don't know anything about music or guitars. (But a 1937 D-28 is about $10K!) If I got any of those details wrong, please ignore it (and I'm sorry!).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're (more than) halfway! Thanks for your patience! I'm trying not to take 18,000 years between chapters, I swear. 
> 
> This chapter's also fairly non-linear. I hope it's not too confusing.
> 
> Usual caveat applies here--I don't know much about music, the writing or playing thereof, so please be kind and forgive any mistakes there.

Writing with him has never been like writing with anyone else.

There have been others—award-winning producers, other singers, other musicians, other genres—but none of them have been staked in the process like the one they used to spin around each other. Some days, when she’s feeling charitable, she likes to think it’s because they once understood each other more than anyone else in the world. And some days, she thinks it’s because they were both too stubborn to quit, to know when to step away from each other, from the song, to figure out when something just needed the time and the space to breathe.

But that’s been the story of the two of them from the start—everything or nothing, and no space for anything in between.

Like the summer they were writing through their sophomore album, the label chasing them nonstop, the press from their debut still hanging rough around their necks, and the two of them so nervous they were making themselves sick with it, they did nothing but eat, drink, and think about the album for four months. Some days, she thought they’d kill each other before they’d be able to walk away with a song that both of them were happy with. Some days, she thought they’d all have to quit because they wouldn’t be able to meet their delivery deadline.

And somehow, they managed to pull it out under the wire. ( _Affecting and resonant,_ NME wrote, _A surprisingly refreshing evolution from their debut._ ) 

What she remembers from that time is the stress of it, how time bled together until it seemed like they were living in the space of a single moment. How much coffee and alcohol they drank while they tried to get everything down on tape, how much they hid in tiny practice rooms, barely leaving for food or for bathroom breaks, until it seemed like the only other noise of people she’d heard that day was the playback of their own voices. How much they fought until he was the last person in the world that she wanted to see.

But then there were the moments when everything clicked into place, when he would look at her and understand exactly what she was trying to do, his entire body buzzing with excitement, his smile too wide for his mouth. There were moments when they would sit back on their heels and reflect on how slick and polished something sounded, how they landed close enough to what they were trying to do that they could call it a win.

They would always listen to the tracks together before showing it to Reggie and Alex, before figuring out what they wanted to do. She misses those nights sometimes, her splayed out on his sofa, him tapping cadences from his position on the floor. He always stayed close enough to touch, and she can still remember the glow of satisfaction spreading through her as she soaked in the sound they created— _their_ sound—while he leaned his head back against the couch cushions, looking dazed and dizzy, too tired to think, too wired to talk, and reached for her hand.

It felt so good to listen to what they made and know that it was worth all of the hours, all of the arguments, all of the time. Hearing their voices together on the track always gave her goosebumps, as if each time was like the first time she heard what they wrote together. It was more than the work itself, than the pride of creating something. She was never so convinced of the truth of them as she was when she listened to their voices, when she noticed how neatly they fit together on the track.

And then there was that careful slow smile he reserved for moments when he felt like something was good enough, when they decided together that the song was finished, the one that he rarely let anyone else see.

The smile, she liked to think, that he saved just for her.

  
Even after they got together, their writing process never changed.

She can still smell those practice rooms, remember the stale coffee that kept them working through the late hours. It's that Luke she pictures most often. His hair messy, a pencil stuck between his teeth, grimacing as he scribbles a note in her journal because she asked him to write something down before they forgot it all. But Luke always worked out of his own head, editing and editing before she’d ever had the chance to listen to a note.

He’d always laugh at her when she tried to get them to commit to any kind of order. _C'mon, Jules, y_ _ou know that’s not how I work_ , he’d mumble around a pick. _It’s got to sound right before we write anything down. Then you’re just rewriting._

 _We’re always rewriting_ , she would say. _It’s easier to do it when we can see it instead of riffing off of whatever’s coming out of your head or your mouth half the time._

 _That’s the art school in you_ , he said, grinning at her. _Too many rules. No_ _spontaneity_.

She tossed her head with a dismissive laugh, shooting him a look. _Not you trying to tell_ me _to loosen up._

He grinned at her, snorting a quiet laugh.

Like he had no discipline and no structure to the way he liked to write either. Like he didn't have order to his process.

Or when they were close to the end of writing, but not quite, and he would sit and loop through the same section of the track eighteen, twenty-four times, until she felt like the only thing she could hear whenever she closed her eyes was the sound of their voices singing the same parts, until she felt like she was two inches from snapping and throwing him and his instruments out a window.

He sat on the floor, rocking back and forth in time to the track with his eyes closed, listening for who knew what, blindly sifting for what was working from what wasn't even though all of the hours up to then hadn't made any kind of difference.

Or when she'd had enough and couldn't stand to hear another second, she would climb into his lap and throw her arms around his neck and wait for him to stop working. To step away from it for a second, for a minute.

He always complained at first, leaning towards the speaker, lightly pushing at her shoulders.

 _The music will still be there_ , she said into the skin of his neck.

_Yeah? And what about you?_

She took his chin and angled his face towards her, pecking a kiss against his mouth. _Me? I could be anywhere. I don't have to wait for you._

_No?_

_I'm a very busy lady. Very important._

And no matter how hard he tried to stay focused and turn back to what he was doing, she refused to move until he finally gave in (and he always gave in), kissing her back hard and shedding sheets of music behind him as they spilled against the floor.

  
The first Grammy they ever won was theirs to share.

They were all seated together in the third row, the four of them clasping hands as they waited for Ezra Koenig to break the seal of the envelope and announce the winner.

When their names were called, she was too stunned to move until Luke was there, almost lifting her out of her seat and into his arms. His body vibrated with nerves, mouth warm as it touched against her cheek in celebration. They moved like statues coming to life, the boys wrapping their arms around her while she tried to figure out if she could still feel her fingers. Dizzy from the too-many glasses of champagne, from the lack of anything to eat except three french fries and a single crudité, from her heart pounding in her throat, she let the boys buoy her forward as they made their way towards the stage, her hands shaking so badly she couldn't even find the speech she prepared.

The award was both heavier and lighter than she imagined.

Her entire body shivered so much when she took to the stage that Luke wrapped his muscular arms around her from behind and squeezed, just to tell her to relax. By the time she stepped in front of the mic, she was almost teary from the adrenaline. “I’m sorry,” she laughed, with an apologetic shrug. “I had a whole speech prepared and I can't seem to find it…”

The crowd gave a game laugh, and after, she launched into the thank yous that she could remember. She thanked the producers, the mixers, their agent, the label, her family, and then she turned and thanked them, her boys. She talked about finding them in the middle of her studio like guardian angels, she talked about how they helped her to find music again, she spoke at a ramble, forgetting the words by the time they flew off of her tongue while they all stared at her with that same stupid smile across their faces.

From the award, from what she was saying, from whatever they were thinking or feeling, she couldn't tell.

Her eyes lingered on Luke at the end a beat too long, but then Reggie and Alex bumped her towards the side of the stage, zooming in front of the mic to cycle through their own speeches at a clip, and all she could do was hope no one paid enough attention to notice.

Reggie bellowed a cheer at the audience while Alex stared down at the award, chuckling in disbelief, mesmerized at the way the light shone off of the gilding. 

With a giddy laugh, she tightened her hands around it, the metal edge cool against her skin. After everything, she finally did something to make her mom proud—did something to prove that she belonged, to prove that her work meant something.

Luke was the last to take the mic, the walk-off cue already beginning to play from the wings as he started off his thank yous. Running a hand through his hair, he shot her a quick look before rattling them off. “Thank you to our label, Columbia Records, and Rhea for believing in us from the start. Alex, Reg, nothing I can say would do you justice, if I could think of anything to say right now, which I can't. And Jules, always the most responsible person in the room, thank you for listening, for editing, for being there, and being the voice of reason. You've been our guiding light from day one. Without you, we would still be in that studio, playing for tips, instead of here, wasting the Academy's time. You're the best writing partner, business partner, everything partner in the world and I'm very, very lucky. Ahhh!"

Her cheeks burned hot, her mouth dry, but the audience cheered and clapped for them as the ushers led them off, the producers gesturing at them frantically to get off the stage. 

In the wings, ahead of the press room, the four of them crashed together, arms draped over each other in a group hug, dancing and hopping around while the producers tried to shepherd them towards the press area. 

“We did it!” Reggie hollered, and she laughed and hopped along in her heels, drunk with their emotion (and the many, many glasses of champagne), with surprise.

“Grammy Award nominees no more,” Alex added.

“You did it!” Luke said, squeezing her in another hug and lifting her off her feet.

She laughed, breathless in his arms, and touched her forehead against his. He held her steady in the air for a moment, and she breathed it in. The moment. The win. "We did it," she whispered.

“All right, guys,” Alex said, as the producer glared at them all. “We got to move on before we hold up the line and they arrest us or something.”

Luke clung to her side the rest of the night, and she smiled so hard that her cheeks were sore for days after.

(They took home two awards that night and drank so much after that she can barely remember anything else.)

When their awards arrived in the mail a month later, she couldn’t stop staring at it—the gleam of the gold, the letters on the nameplate, the shine of her name in the light.

She ran her finger over the engraving—

JULIE MOLINA  
SONGWRITER  
BEST ROCK SONG — 2025  
TAKE IT IN STRIDE  
(Julie and the Phantoms)

He was the one who told her to keep them on the mantle ("So anyone who comes over can see just what kind of a big deal you are..."), and that's where they sit even now, angled out towards the entry foyer, still gleaming like they did the night she won them.

Flynn says she should put them somewhere else.

Flynn says it isn't like she's short on other awards to display.

But whenever she thinks about moving them, she can't bring herself to follow through. There's something special about the first Grammy, about the first time she stepped on stage to be recognized for her music, about how she won them.

There's always something special about your first.

  
After Tokyo, she had to learn how to write without him.

After Tokyo, she returned to the quiet isolation of her empty house, faced her piano, and tried to pull something out of the ashes of the last two decades of her life.

He— _they_ —had been the first people she ever wrote with after her mom died, had been the only people she'd trusted enough to open up to then, and she found herself staring down that moment again. That moment of not knowing if she was strong enough, good enough, to push through, of not knowing if she could do it without losing herself in all of the feelings that trapped her in silence for months.

Luke always liked to think of himself as an artist. A musician first, writer second, performer third.

She just liked to think of herself as Julie.

Just Julie.

And for those first few months, it was like learning to walk again. Everything that she tried to do without him sounded like something they had been working on months ago, years ago, sounded like an early draft of a Phantoms song that didn't have his throughline, his sharpness, that tried to do too much. She found herself circling through old rhythms and melodies, his voice buzzing in the back of her mind as feedback trickled through from other sessions, other places, other times.

_Four on the floor, Jules? Boring. You want to go swingier so go swingier. Lean into it.  
_

_There’s too much happening in the lyrics. Scale it back._

_Where’s the tension leading into the pre-chorus? You have to tighten it up._

She hated it, hated hearing him in the back of her mind, hated knowing that, even in her memories, he was always right.

What she wanted was to forget everything they had ever taught one another, to start fresh as if he had never marked her at all. (But some things can't be rebuilt. Some things are like footprints in the snow, to be tracked and covered over, never to be restored as it once was.)

So she ran him out of her head.

She followed the sounds that he never liked to work with, went airy, went soulful, went electronic, shied away from the brash guitars and drums that they relied on until it seemed like it was something entirely hers. Even then, he hovered in the shadows behind her lyrics, the things that she chose to sing because she couldn’t bear to say them, the things that she never got the chance to say. 

She remembers playing the first few demos from her debut for Alex and Reggie, watching as they stalked around her living room, their hands in their pockets, their mouths puckered as they thought about what they wanted to say or how they wanted to say it.

“Interesting,” Alex said.

Reggie hummed. “Very interesting.”

“What does that mean?” she said, huffing with exasperation. “Is it good or does it suck?”

They glanced at each other, then at the floor, then at each other again.

“Um,” Reggie said. “It’s different.”

“Different good?” she pushed. “Or different bad?”

“I don’t know that we’re the right kinds of people to judge what you’re going for here,” Alex said. “It’s not really uh…”

“Our area of expertise,” Reggie offers.

“You’re my band,” she said. “Who else do I need to listen to it?”

Alex dragged the toe of his sneaker against the floor while they all pretended not to think what they were thinking. With a deep sigh, he perked back up. “You’re right,” he said. “Want to play it back for us again?”

She clicked back to the beginning, and they collapsed onto her sofa, kicking up their legs as her voice slid easily through the delicate flutter of the backing strings and the hollow echo of the snare.

It didn’t matter if they didn’t want to say. She knew what he would have said anyway.

He would have said that she needed different textures, that she had to rely on more dynamics than just her voice. He would have said that her sound needed to support what her voice was doing. He would have called the arrangement too busy, the instrumentation too simplistic, the lyrics too flat.

Go bigger, he would have said.

So she kept it small, quiet. Personal. She wasn’t writing for him anyway—not anymore.

  
When she tells Flynn about their plans to write together, the girl’s speechless on the line for almost a minute. And then, it’s Flynn at her most direct, huffing over the line, “What do you _mean_ you’re going to write with him?” 

She shrugs, sinking down on the edge of her hotel bed. “He wrote a song,” she says. “The Phantoms, I mean. He wrote a song for the induction ceremony and it sounds like us, but it doesn’t really sound like us.”

“Yeah?” Flynn says. “And?”

“Everything that we wrote back then, we wrote together. The two of us, and then the four of us. That’s what’s missing from the sound.”

"Jules," Flynn says.

"What?"

"You're really going to write with this man? After everything?"

She sighs. "It's just a song, Flynn," she says. "Chill. We've done this a thousand times. We can manage it one more time for the show."

Flynn hums a flat note over the line. “Are you _sure_ you know what you’re signing up for?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Writing together was never just about writing together.”

“It’s been a long time,” she says. “And before we got into—before all of that, we were writing as friends.”

She can hear Flynn’s eye roll over the line. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “You guys were never friends. You were in denial.”

Julie clicks her tongue. “We were not!”

“Oh, please,” Flynn says. “Ask Reggie, ask Alex, they’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Nah,” Julie says. “How’d you think the whole thing got started? We were friends first.”

“Mmhmm,” Flynn intones. “All I’m going to say is…boundaries. The two of you need them. _Have_ needed them. For years.”

Flynn has a whole list of advice that she rattles through over the rest of the call, like Julie needs reminding about how badly everything ended the first time. But Flynn doesn’t understand how much time has passed, how much destruction they left in their wake. It’s not like they’re in their twenties, unsure of what they want and how to talk about it, the feelings muddy and thick between the two of them. They’re older now and, she hopes, wiser, smart enough to avoid stepping into the traps that caught them the first time around.

Besides, she hasn’t had a problem with keeping the boundaries firm. Especially not after what happened at the Billboard Awards.

“Okay,” Flynn says. “I know it sounds harsh, but I'm just trying to look out for you. I don’t want to see you get into a situation where you get your heart broken again.”

Julie doesn’t say that she thinks the chances are low, that her heart’s already been demolished enough that she wouldn’t dare trust it to him again. “I’m not,” she says. “Look, you should have been there when we had drinks.”

Flynn squeaks a long gasp. “You…had…drinks?” she explodes.

Julie winces. “I mean—Reggie—” she starts, as Flynn launches into another rant, “Alex and Reggie were the ones who set it up. They thought it would be, like, an icebreaker.”

“An icebreaker,” Flynn repeats. “Drinks. And you’re just telling me this now?”

“Well, I would have told you if something happened,” Julie says. “That’s what I’m telling you now. If you were there, you’d know there’s nothing to worry about. It was so awkward.”

“Mmm,” Flynn hums. “Awkward because it’s unfinished?”

“Girl,” Julie says. “Please. Awkward because it was fucking awkward.”

“Julie, you’re my best friend,” Flynn says. “And I love you. And, as your best friend who loves you, it's my duty to tell you that I remember everything that happened. And I know how you get when you're around each other. So I’m just saying…”

“I know,” she says. “I know, I know.”

“Let it be in your rearview. And be careful, okay?” Flynn says.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll try.”

  
She knows Flynn worries about her. Flynn’s never not been worried about her, not since they caught their first big break, not since her mother passed. Julie’s grateful for it most days, how Flynn’s the closest thing she has to a sister in this world and everything that comes with it, but sometimes, she wishes she could get a break from her all-seeing eye and her infinite wisdom.

But it's true she was there for all of it. For the long nights after they'd crawled off the red-eye from Prague, for the panic attacks and the nightmares, for the times when she missed him so badly she couldn't remember how to eat. Flynn was her anchor, helping her to pick up the threads of her life while she tried to figure out what was left in the aftermath.

When Reggie and Alex would come over, the four of them would sit down together and talk around it, the absence that they knew she wasn't ready to talk about. So much of it felt familiar—everyone watching her and waiting for her to snap, walking on eggshells because they didn't want to be the thing that set it off.

But it had been surprisingly okay.

With the boys and Flynn, it had been enough to go through and talk about music, about the projects they were working on, about how they were trying to move on. They understood, in their own ways, what she was going through.

And, in the months after, Flynn was there by her side during the recovery. For the days when they cleaned out every bit of him from her house, his clothes folded and boxed up, his records and his guitar picks and his books shipped back to their manager's office without a note. For those moments when she found herself sifting through old trinkets and photos, missing the sound of his voice and hating herself for it. For the first times she sat at the piano and tried to write. For the nights when Luke would call, when Flynn would snatch her phone from her hand before she could react, thumb already cued up against the reject button, growling her discontent as Julie drank herself through another bottle of wine.

No, she doesn't blame her. There's only so much of seeing someone else's pain before you start wondering about what it'll take for them to move on.

And Flynn knows exactly how long that took.

(Flynn knows she might be lying about moving on at all.)

Take her first homecoming show at the Staples Center.

She couldn't have asked for a better crowd or a better evening, thousands of people cheering and screaming her name any time she did as much as move her hands. There was no denying that they loved her, that they had followed the news and wanted her to know that they were there _for_ her, that they wanted to make sure she knew the weight of that love. It had been close enough to home for her dad and Carlos and her tia Victoria to come too, and she remembers having them in the dressing room with her before she took to the stage, all of them hugging her and wishing her a great show, reminding her that she had other people in the world, loving her so hard she found it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

But, even with the crowd on her side, even with her family, she felt nervous in a way she hadn't been in a long time.

If she had to guess, maybe it was something to do with her playing alone for the first time in a long time. Maybe it was the idea that she was home again—and home without him, without them—or that she hadn't so much as taken a minute to process what being home would mean since she crossed state lines back into California. Maybe it was that she was tired, and already thinking about taking a break.

Maybe it was everything.

She remembers the heat of the stage lights against the top of her head as she sat back down at the bench, remembers sweating through her black leather jacket, her hair drenched and plastered to her head.

They had been close to the end of the set, cycling through the last of the slower songs before they were meant to hit the singles at the end. With a nervous laugh, she greeted the crowd, adjusting the angle of the mic near the piano as they chanted her name.

She picked the wrong song.

(The way that Flynn tells it, it was bound to happen. The way that Flynn tells it, it has nothing to do with the song and everything to do with how she was doing when she got back from Tokyo, how much she pushed herself to work through it, pretending that she was fine.

The way that Flynn tells it, it was inevitable.

But, honestly, Julie blames the song.)

_How_ was never meant to be a single.

It was never meant to be anything at all.

It was the end of a recording session at the studio, a moment of her blowing off steam at the piano, riffing with nothing. When she and the boys recorded together, they had a habit of blocking off time at the end to goof off and fuck around, and it's something she kept up even after the split.

It was a reflection more than anything else, her fingers keeping a light pulse against the keys while she sang through her unformed thoughts, but it had been enough for the label.

_how can i forget your love_   
_how can i never see you again_

The rest of the band lingered in the studio, listening to her, trying to figure out where she was going. They didn't come in until the second verse, improvising underneath her simple melody, adding more structure, more spine, until it started to sound like something more than a confession committed to tape.

Her voice stayed breathy and full of vibrato, light enough to match the softness of the piano, as the bass and drums came in behind her.

_there is a time and place_   
_for one more sweet embrace_   
_and there’s a time when it all went wrong_

When the label caught it at the tail of the demo, they told her to cut it for the record.

It took them three hours to lay it all down with the piano, drums, bass and pedal steel. An hour to build out the rest of the lyrics.

She never played it for the boys.

She doesn't like to play it live.

She rarely plays it at all.

Usually, as soon as she takes the stage, she loses herself to the magic of the show, to the energy of the crowd and performing and becoming Julie Molina, superstar. But there was something different about that night. The lights were too bright on her, the rest of the stage sunk into darkness, the arena equally dim. Her hands shook as she rested them on the piano keys, taking a breath to steady herself before she started to play.

Maybe she missed seeing the boys on stage beside her, knowing that she could lean on them for anything.

Maybe she glanced out into the dark and felt, for the first time since it all ended, what the split really meant.

But she tried her best.

She played the slow intro and tried to focus on the hushed awe of the crowd, on the movement of her fingers, on building the mood. But all she could think about was how heavy the keys felt, how heavy her chest felt, how much she missed him hovering behind her shoulder.

Leaning forward, her lips bumped the mic, and she sang close the way that he always liked to do it.

_oh baby, how can i begin again  
how can i try to love someone new?_

Cell phone lights lit up the arena, swaying back and forth like a summer swarm as the crowd settled into their seats. She felt the energy shift as they recognized the song, a ripple of gasps and squeals ringing out as they studied her for some kind of a reaction.

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes and leaning forward over the keys as she tried to hide from the cameras filming her for the jumbo screens.

Heat traveled up the column of her throat, her voice growing thick.

_someone who isn't you  
how can our love be true  
when i'm not, oh  
i'm not over you  
_

She tossed her head, hair falling forward to hide her face as she played towards the chorus. If she could only make it to the next lines, she thought, she'd be okay.

If she could just get through the verse, she thought, she'd be okay.

Fighting the warble in her voice, she glanced towards the wings of the stage on instinct, searching for a comforting face. For a moment, she thought she saw him, hiding in the shadows, singing along like he always did. Beaming at her as he listened to her play.

_so baby, how can i forget your love_   
_how can i never see you again_

Her voice rose smoothly into her belt as she hit the chorus, and he stayed watching her from the sideline, somber and regretful as he was that day in Rhea's office.

_how can i ever know  
why some stay, others go  
_

The tears caught her by surprise, tracking hot against her cheeks, heavy against her eyelashes, before she knew they were coming.

She took a sharp breath for the next note, and found herself fighting back a sob. With a quiet sigh, she slid back to sing the harmony instead.

_when i don't, oh  
i don't want you to go_

Ronny played his way towards the piano, improvising an extended riff as he stepped towards the bench. 

She ducked her head to the side, and he leaned his body towards her, blocking the camera angle. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them away as best as she could, hoping not to mess up her make-up too badly.

"You okay?" Ronny whispered.

She nodded, and made a sharp gesture against the side of the piano. "Let's cut it early."

Ronny nodded.

And with a rueful laugh, she added, "I picked the wrong song for the set, I guess."

Ronny came up and bumped lightly against her shoulder in a show of support as she turned back towards the mic.

_time can come and wash away the pain_   
_but i just want my memories to remain_

Her fingers stilled on the keys, dropping off the accompaniment suddenly. With a breathy whisper, she sang the last few lines of the song into the microphone a cappella, her voice thin and fragile.

_to hear your voice_   
_to see your face_

Ronny reached to squeeze her shoulder.

_there's not one moment  
i'd erase_

The stage lights softened overhead, sliding down into darkness.

_you are a guest here now_

And then she was just sitting in the black, tears hot against her cheeks, trying not to think about him and finding it hard to think about anything else.

All of the times that he stood beside her on stage, happy to be making music; all of the things he whispered to her in the middle of the night, the things he couldn't bring himself to tell anyone else; all of the promises he once made her about the future that they could share.

Ronny wrapped his arms around her in an awkward hug, guitar pressing against her shoulder, and she roused herself to standing as the crowd thundered their approval, their support, their love.

With another deep breath, she stretched her mouth into a wide, bright smile before she turned towards the crowd and waved.

She knows he thinks it's been easy for her.

She knows he thinks that because of the fame, because of all of the people, because of how hurt she was, it was easier for her to walk away. And, if she's being honest, it's been easier to let the newspapers and the tabloids write that distance in for them, to let him think that she's an entirely new person, that she's left all of their baggage in the past where it can't hurt her anymore.

(She wishes it couldn't hurt her anymore.)

The truth is that he could never see past his own feelings, that his blind spot has always been the consequences of his actions where other people are concerned, and part of that holds true even now. But at least it's easier this way.

Easier to pretend that they're nothing to each other, that the bridges are all burned.

Easier to pretend that she isn't terrified to see him again, that she hasn't been afraid of running into him for years. Afraid that her boundaries were never as firm as she wanted them to be (as she told other people they were), afraid that she would never stop loving him (afraid that she would), afraid that the music would slip through her fingers again, lost to time, to the memories of him, of them, to the things they created together.

And if it's made her a little meaner, a little crueler, a little quick to say the things that are on the tip of her tongue, maybe it's for the best. They've known each other too long, she thinks, and too well, and she'd rather him remember her with all of her armor on, dressed to the nines at the awards, surrounded by men twice his size, shielded from anything he could throw at her. She wants him to remember her as she is on stage, stomping around in her platform shoes, confident and tall, singing about how she didn't need him anymore.

She wants him to remember her indestructible, not as that broken girl on the long-distance phone call scrambling to pick up the pieces.

No matter what she feels, it's simpler if they slip back into their separate lives after this, simpler if she never has to try to figure out how to fit him in her life.

It's simpler if he hates her.

And as much as it hurts, the lie's the easiest thing to live with.

Flynn thinks this is for the best.

Flynn thinks that with enough time and enough distance, she'll be able to see Luke for what he did instead of what he told her, that she'll be able to move on and not think of him at all. Flynn doesn't believe in forgiveness in things like this; she believes in never forgetting.

It's Alex and Reggie who are more measured, who try to get her to think about reaching out, to consider whether or not she wants anything to do with him ever again. Maybe it's because they were the ones who were there for the ride, who knew just how much they all meant to one another in the early days of the band. Maybe it's because they miss the music as much as she does and this is the closest they can come to getting back to what they used to be. Maybe it's because they used to be a family in their own way, and now they're scattered and broken and a little lost.

She doesn't know.

All she knows is that she's never thought much about forgiveness, never considered whether there was still anything to forgive.

With enough time, everything becomes a faint memory or a dull ache. With enough time, all she can really do is think about the choices that she made and reflect on whether or not they were the right ones. She knows what they expect from her—anger, heartbreak, hard lines—but it's been a long time and all she wants is clarity.

All she wants is to know what she wants, what it's possible to have, what's good for her.

She doesn't blame him anymore. Not really. She's owed her fair share of responsibility for what went wrong, and she knows that what he did ended up bringing the end quicker than it would have come otherwise, but there was no denying that it was coming. And even if he hadn't gone and left them in Prague, even if he hadn't disappeared, even if he hadn't put himself and his dreams above the band, above them, something else would have happened. He would have chosen something else, done something else, and ended it anyway.

He would have run, or she would have hid, and they still would have lost each other.

There's no point in fighting the past.

She knows that what her friends want is answers, something concrete they can point to and say that she's okay now, or that doing this or that will make her okay again. But there's been a lot the business has taken out of her over the years, and maybe asking to be happy is more than anyone can expect from a job like this. From a life like this.

Maybe it's enough to do the thing that she loves and feel bitter only some of the time. Maybe it's enough that she can find someone who can listen to her and support her, but who isn't her whole world, who doesn't spark that live-wire feeling inside of her that makes her feel like she's going to explode.

Maybe what she's looking for is to just be okay.

To leave it alone, and let the bruise heal.

Alex calls bullshit. (He's always liked to call her out.)

Alex says that she's letting fear drive her decisions and that she isn't thinking about what she wants, only what she thinks she can have.

Alex says the two things are not the same.

( _Alex thinks he's Yoda_ , Reggie says.)

She knows his heart's in the right place. She knows that there are pieces of the picture that she's missing, that there's things they know about him that she doesn't, that they've gotten to see the both of them change over the years, growing and shifting further and further apart.

She knows that they've even written with him here and there, that there's more that they know about how he feels—about how it ended—than they're willing to share. They're allowed their secrets, and she's always given them the benefit of the doubt because there's little she could learn about him now that would do anything other than add poison to the well.

It's not like she expected them to take sides. (They've known him years longer than they've known her. No matter how much they love her, how much they tell her she's the little sister they never had, she knows that it's hard to beat that. History. The weight of it.) But she doesn't know how to tell them that she can't think about it the way that they can, that the distance that they have is because their love for him is something different, something more removed from how they think about themselves.

It's hard for them to remember how much he helped her to become the person that she is now, how much they changed each other.

They don't know how much work it took for her to build herself into something he hadn't touched, something he wouldn't recognize. She's not sure they even know that that's something she wanted to do in the first place. 

_It's not like we're asking you to get back together_ , Alex says. _Just try to be friends._

Like they ever knew how to be friends.

(They were lost before they even knew they were starting.)

Even when they were friends, she remembers how he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking. Even when they were friends, she was a little in love with him before she knew what to call it. 

_You're both being childish_ , Alex likes to lecture at her. _Have one conversation_. _Sit down and Red Table Talk it out._

She doesn't even know what that means.

 _You don't need to know what it means_ , Alex says. _All you need to do is take the advice._

But no matter how hard she tries to see it from their side, she can't think about seeing him again, can't think about putting herself back in a position to be hurt. She wants him to be the one crawling back on his hands and knees. She wants to have the power to say no.

 _It was a mistake,_ Reggie tells her. _He knows that better than anyone._

But there's making a mistake and there's living with it, and Julie knows that he's not the kind to reflect on the damage that his choices have made. No matter how much some small part of her wants to be the exception.

 _I don't know how you can tell me all this after what he did to you too_ , she tells them. _It wasn't just me._

No, but she was the one he wounded the most.

They've already gone and made their peace in their own way, in the way that boys do with their weird honor code where they've evened the scales and he's paid it all back and now they're square which means the same as nothing's happened.

 _You want to know how bad he was doing without you?,_ Alex says.

She takes a moment. Pauses. Considers.

 _Because he wasn't doing great_ , Reggie says.

 _Good_ , she says, quietly.

 _Yeah_ , Alex says, _but neither were you._

 _No_ , she says.

 _Yeah_ , Alex says.

She takes a breath. _Why does it matter? Why now?_

 _Because_ , Alex says, snagging the fingers of her hand, _we're your friends and we love you. And you haven't been happy in a long time._

She looks up at him. _He fucked up._

 _Yeah_ , Alex says. _He did. No one's saying he didn't.  
_

_It's not my job to forgive him because he feels bad that he fucked up._

_Nobody's asking you to forgive him_ , Alex says.

 _All we're saying is...talk_ , Reggie says. _He's a different person now.  
_

 _And so are you_ , Alex says.

She scoffs. _And you think that's enough to make me happy?_

 _No_ , Alex says. _But I think it's a start._

 _I think it'll make it easier,_ Reggie says.

_Easier for what?_

_Easier for you. No matter what happens._

Closure—isn't that an idea.

The truth is that, if it hadn't been for Reggie, she doesn’t even know if she would have gone to the hotel bar that night.

She agreed because she wasn't going to be the only one to skip it, because she didn't want to call attention to the fact that she didn't want to do it, didn't want to see him again, didn't want to sit and talk about nothing (or, worse, everything) for the sake of a one-off show that she's never going to think about again. She agreed because she wasn't going to chicken out, even if the whole thing made her feel thirteen again, like trying to figure out how to be on a first date—what to wear, what to say, what to talk about—except with the memory of everything they'd ever said and done hanging over her head like a guillotine.

By the time Reggie dropped by her hotel, her bed was scattered with the remnants of five different outfits she'd tried and rejected, a litter of empty coffee cups collapsed on top of the dresser.

By the time he knocked on her door, she had chewed cuts into the insides of her cheeks, nervous enough to consider canceling to sit in the dark of her hotel room for the rest of the night.

When she dragged her heels in answering the door, he called her phone, his foot knocking at the door while he waited for her to pick up or to answer. "I know you're in there," he called through the door. "So there's no point in ignoring me."

She tossed the five hangers in her arms onto the bed and paced in front of the mirror. "What do you want?" she said.

"I brought you something," he said. "A little gift."

Reggie's always been thoughtful that way. Even when they were touring, he would always bring her a small trinket or a treat, always hug her before they took to the stage, always check in with her late at night when he felt like she was running herself ragged.

When she opened the door, his body leaned against the jamb, a vase in his hands, dahlia blooms covering the bottom half of his face.

"Hi!" she chirped.

"I have coffee too," he said, as she took the vase from his hands and set it on top of the dresser. "Though, by the sound of it, it's probably not a good idea for you to have any more."

She buried her face in the flowers and breathed them in. "They're beautiful," she said. "Thank you."

"I wanted to see how you were doing," he said, setting the coffee down beside her other cups.

"You wanted to see if I was chickening out," she translated.

He shrugged. "Maybe."

She collapsed on the bed with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m ready. I can't even pick an outfit.”

"Well," Reggie said, taking a seat beside her on the bed, "I guess it's important to show up with a look that makes him feel a little bit like shit."

She rolled onto her side and shot him a look.

"What?" he said. "I listen to women."

She groaned, chuckling ruefully. "Stop it," she intoned. "Help me."

Reggie jabbed a finger at her bicep to get her to sit back up. “Hey,” he said. “Alex and I are going to be there too. You're not going to be alone. Promise.”

"That's not what I'm worried about," she mumbled, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

It's true that they've never left her. Not after he disappeared, when they holed up with her in her hotel room to make sure she didn't drive herself crazy or drink herself to sleep; not after they left Prague when they called her every day to check in; not after the Phantoms split up, when they would come by and jam with her in her house, playing around and bullshitting about their plans for the future.

After the split, they were the one thing that kept her going. That made her think that she could still do this—do music, do this godforsaken business—on her own. For all that the tabloids have written about her ego, she's never thought of herself as a solo performer by choice. She prefers the relationships of a band, the support of having a team of musicians and songwriters around her who want to build something together.

They've always understood that.

But even though the Phantoms had been such a huge part of all of their lives, it had been nearly all of hers. Her first real group, her first breakthrough, her first awards, her first success—the musical equivalent of a high school boyfriend.

Losing the band had been a relief as much as it had felt unbearable.

And when she decided to try writing again, when she was learning how impossible it was to write anything that didn't sound like a reject from an old album, they were the ones who pushed her to work through it. They were the ones there with her in her living room until three in the morning, listening to Thelonious Monk and Minnie Riperton and Donna Summer, and trying to figure out what her new sound was going to be.

Not theirs, but hers.

“It’ll come back to you sooner or later,” Alex had said then.

“Yeah,” Reggie had added. “You’re just in the yips.”

“The yips?” she said.

“Yeah,” Reggie said. “Like in golf?”

She shrugged. “Reg,” she said. “Golf? Me?”

“When your mojo goes,” Alex said. “But it’ll come back to you soon. You just have to give it time.”

And in the meantime, while she waited for it all to wash out and come back, they were there, playing her songs and making her laugh.

She never did thank them for how much space they gave her then, space to figure out what she was writing and how she wanted to talk about it, space to fuck up and feel okay.

She owes them more than she can ever let them know.

Reggie collapsed onto the bed beside her with an exasperated sigh, elbowing her in the ribs. “You’re acting like we’re going to take you to be put down,” he said.

“Dark,” Julie said.

"What are you scared of?" he said. "I mean, really. Nothing's going to happen to you when we're there."

She turned and looked at him. "You can't say that," she said. "You don't know what's going to happen."

"No," Reggie said. "But I know Luke. And I know you. And it's not as bad as you think it's going to be."

“You can't know that. Everything after was so…messy," she said.

Reggie coughed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I was there. I lived it.”

“I don’t know if I”m ready to see him—to do this,” she said. “I mean, the last time we saw each other, it wasn’t good.”

Reggie raised his eyebrows. “And you think he’s going to be like that again?”

“No,” she said, quietly. “I don’t think he remembers.”

"You're going to have to see him sooner or later," he said. "Especially since you both agreed to do this."

She groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes. "Don't remind me."

He sat up, pulling at her arm so that he could sneak a look at her face. "Julie," he started, "It's _one_ drink."

She looked at him. "One?" she said. " _One_ drink. You swear?"

Reggie squeezed her shoulders and pushed her from the bed to sit up. “Listen,” he says. “You can’t control everything. No matter how much you want to."

She glanced at the floor, kicking her feet against the frame of the bed. “Why not,” she whined.

He took her hand. "Hey."

“Yeah,” she said.

“Sooner or later, you’re going to see each other. You're going to be in the same room. On the same stage,” he said. "You have to get over it sometime."

She groaned.

"You don't have to _talk_ about it," he said. "You just have to get through it."

"I know," she said.

"Plus, it's not like you guys had any problem talking shit before, so," he said, smirking. "Now you can do it in person."

"You promised," she said. "Things said in interviews will not be held against me."

"Yeah, yeah," he deadpanned. "Musician's fifth amendment rights."

She laughed.

“I’ll even buy first round, you baby,” he said. “Come on.”

He dragged her down to the hotel bar, ordering two rounds of drinks for them as they headed back towards their private room. She drained the first martini quicker than she expected, the alcohol sharp and bitter on the back of her tongue.

“Feel better?” he said, waving her into the booth.

She shrugged and took a sip of the second. “Maybe,” she drawled, sliding into her seat.

He grinned. “Doctor Reggie solves it again,” he said. 

“Doctor Reggie?” she said.

“President?” he said. “Boss? Esquire?”

She snorted a laugh and dragged an olive off the toothpick with her teeth. “Esquire Reggie.”

  
And the next time she saw him, the first time she saw him in a long while, he looked as nervous as she felt, his eyes shifty as he scanned the bar for where they were seated before the boys leapt up to pull him back towards their booth.

The ache still struck her right between the ribs when she saw him again, but weaker, fainter that time.

He looked the same as he always did, the same as the first time she met him, the same as she remembered. In a t-shirt repping some band she's never heard of and his trusty leather jacket, his hair shaggy and loose, messed by his hands too many times. For the first few minutes they sat there together, it's beyond unbearable, his eyes studying the wood grain of the table more than he looks at her, nobody talking, and the room quiet enough to make them feel the time passing.

She forced a bright smile she wasn't feeling, and took a steadying sip of her drink.

With enough alcohol, she thought, they could get through this. They could get through the past. They could get through the small talk and the fake pleasantries and the empty gestures.

They could get through anything.

Even each other.

After, they walked out as a group towards the lobby, Alex and Reggie hovering behind them and whispering among themselves. And before she knew what was happening, they rattled off a thin excuse and sprinted back towards the bar, leaving the two of them to their own devices.

She kept heading for the front lobby, punching the button for the elevator and expecting him to pass her and head out to wherever he was headed next. But he didn't move right away, choosing to linger beside her at the elevators, just a few steps behind her.

It was always annoying how much she could feel his presence, but it made her itch then, waiting for him to spill whatever was weighing on his mind. After another beat of silence, she clicked her tongue and snapped. "What is it?" she said, sounding exhausted even to her own ears.

He took a step closer, and she pulled at the cuff of her sleeve to pick at an imaginary thread.

“Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “But I—I don’t know—maybe I do want to clear the air. Maybe I don’t like leaving it where it ended.”

She sighed, her eyes tracking the slow descent of the elevator as it paused on 15. “It ended, Luke,” she said, flatly. “Nothing that you or I could say will change anything about how it happened.”

"No," he said.

She flung her hands up in the air. "I just don't know what you're expecting to get out of it," she said. "What does it matter?"

"It doesn't," he said. "I guess."

"So, okay," she said. "Let's leave it at that. Let sleeping dogs lie."

“I mean, it was, like, fifteen years. Gone, like that. Are you…is that how you want to leave it?”

"It doesn't matter what I wanted," she says, harder than she intends to. "It never did."

"Of course it mattered," he said.

The elevator tracked down and paused on 10 while she tried not to fidget, while she tried to appear as calm as she wasn't feeling.

She shrunk back into a slouch, feeling exposed as she always did whenever they ran into one another, feeling like she was ten years younger and just as naive and just as stupid. Every conversation with him somehow became an extension of Jamaica, an extension of the last one they had before she ended it, of the worst time in her life, and just as before, just as every time since, she found herself trapped in it like an insect in amber. Suffocating. Caught. "Can I ask you something?" she said, turning to face him.

His eyes met hers, as serious and still as she'd ever seen them, a little startled maybe but soft, open. She used to be able to read everything that he thought before he said it because of his eyes.

Dangerous, those eyes.

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "Anything. You know that."

"What do you want from me, Luke?" she said. "Really. No bullshit. What is it that you want? You want me to absolve you of some guilt that you're carrying? You want a second chance? You want me to hook you up with something? Like, what is it that you're trying to get from me?"

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "Honestly?" he said.

She gave a terse nod. "It's what I asked."

"It's the same thing I've wanted for the last five years," he said.

The elevator bell dinged as it landed in the lobby, _finally_ , and she stepped towards it and waited for the doors to open.

He stayed where he was, his hands deep in his pockets.

When the doors slid open, she was greeted with wide stares, a handful of guests and tourists grinning at her in recognition as they trickled out. With a serene smile, she tilted her head down to hide her face, waving shyly at them as they exited the elevator at a plodding pace.

"I want my best friend back," he whispered from behind her.

She bit down on her tongue and waited for the last of the passengers to clear before she stepped into the cabin. He followed after her, lingering in the entryway as other passengers squeezed in around him.

"I want my friend back," he repeated, hand gripping the side of the elevator as the passengers around her pretended not to eavesdrop. "That's all."

She punched the button for her floor, and the doors started to close before kicking back. "You're blocking the door," she said.

He glanced at her again, a little uncertain, nodding once before he retreated back into the lobby.

"Enjoy your day, folks," he chimed at everyone else in the elevator, tapping two fingers to his forehead in a salute.

And then the doors glided shut, the elevator inching back up as she sagged against the elevator wall.

  
She’s tried not to think about it for five years.

Moving on has never been made easier by dwelling on the past, and with him, there’s just so much of it. Past—the good and the bad, the times when they were friends, the times when they were more than friends, the times when they weren’t speaking at all. If she tries to think about all of that history, it’s too easy to lose herself in the highs and lows of it, in remembering what he could be like when he cared, how he was in private when no one was watching them, the stories he used to sketch of their future together, only to be surprised again (always again, always anew) by remembering the bitter finish.

It’s just easier to paint it all with the same brush, to dwell on the casual cruelties, the veiled insults in his songs, the way that he acted like the victim in those months after like she had gone and thrown his love back in his face. Like he hadn't been the one to hurt her first. But Luke’s always preferred that kind of simple thinking. He’s always liked the math of a balance sheet, weighing what he did right against what he did wrong and hoping to end up in the black.

He liked to ask forgiveness, not permission.

But it was never that simple.

They meant so much to each other for so long that she could never cut him out of her story, not entirely, only let him fade into the background, into the kind of ache that stirs again when there’s a coming rain.

And on the bad days, maybe she gets one of his old hoodies from the back of her closet where it stays buried most of the year. On the bad days, when she finds herself missing his presence, his laugh, his voice, when she finds herself wanting his arms around her, his breath hot against her ear, maybe she slips it on and remembers what it was like to be in his arms, what it was like when he loved her.

It might be weak, but that's the only time she trawls back through the past, running through her memories, clinging to the things that she's kept in her house.

That's the only thing that she allows herself to have.

After Reggie's little icebreaker, she treated herself to her usual self-care routine that night—a face mask, a hair mask, scented candles, and a long, hot bath—in the hopes of clearing her mind. Music played through from a Spotify playlist on her phone as she leaned her head back against the ceramic and tried to think about anything else.

Anything other than the sight of him standing in the doorway of the elevator, asking her if it could have been different. (She should know better by now than to lose herself to thinking about the possibilities, but it's impossible not to wonder.

Even though nothing about her relationship with him had ever been easy or clear apart from the music.)

It's too neat a lie to believe that being friends again would have made their lives easier, would have prevented all of those years of mess when they couldn't stand being in the same room, the same arena, together. But the years have made the edges of the truth fuzzy and so what if she let herself think that they could have been sitting side by side at the Grammys again, his arm warm against hers, celebrating each other for the work that they made? What if he could have been the last person she talked to every night again, the person she still shared ideas with?

It's those lies that she should worry about, the attractive ones, the ones that she could too easily believe when it's late or when she's lonely or when things get too hard. But maybe they could have found a way forward if they had been friends again.

Maybe it could have been like it was at the beginning when they were hovering on the edge of something they couldn't understand and didn't want to spoil, talking around their feelings and leaving each other too much space to navigate. When he would look at her and tell her that he was happy to just do whatever she was doing, or when she would tilt her head down and smile whenever something she did for him turned his mood around. When they both pretended that they didn't care about each other any more than they cared about anyone else in their lives.

If she had to be honest, she missed him too. Not just the Luke of their relationship days, but her friend—the one who was always willing to talk her through her problems, to encourage her to fight another battle, another day. She missed having him beside her in the recording booth, cracking jokes and trying to get her to break into a laugh on the track, or in the practice rooms, making himself an easy target for her flung pencils and frustration. He always knew how to get a rise out of her, for good and for bad, and so what if she missed having someone else in the world know her like that? So what if she missed having someone who gave her what she needed without her having to ask for it?

They used to be each other's guides, once upon a time, and maybe it was a failure of imagination for her to think they could never be that again.

(Or maybe she's wandered into uncharted territory for the first time in a long time, thinking that they could do this safely, thinking that they could walk through the woods of their history again and leave all of the old brambles alone.

Maybe she wants to believe too much.)

She sunk further into the water, breathing in the steam and trying to focus on the music, when it cycled through to the next song.

The piano opened in a series of slow, graceful beats, a soft lick of pedal steel rising in the background. She shuddered and tipped herself further into the water as his voice cut through the stillness with a raspy whisper, understated and mournful, ten years younger.

_creeping to a crawl, headed west into the night_   
_and somewhere there’s a room with a half-burning light_   
_and someone i left behind who’s waiting for me_   
_but sometimes what you aim to hold, you don’t get to keep_

They wrote it in a three-day stretch for their fifth album, the two of them holed up inside his home studio and pretending that neither of them were terrified by what had happened in Amsterdam. He brought out the guitar and started plucking at the strings, chatting to her about meter and chords while she was half-listening, half-asleep, watching him out of the corner of her eye and thinking about crawling back into the warmth of his bed.

He reached for her fingers and dragged her nails lightly across the bridge of the guitar while she laughed at the mess of notes that played.

"Practice makes perfect, you know," he said.

She turned to face him and tucked her chin against his shoulder. With a low chuckle, he set the guitar aside as she wrapped her legs around his waist and drew closer. "Is that so?"

She was the one who slowed it down, who transposed it into the minor, who thought about it as a lovelorn ballad. She wanted it to have that classic country sound, something haunting and simple. Melancholic and yearning.

He winked at her, his tongue poking out from between his teeth. "You’re a heartbreaker, Jules," he said, brushing her hair away from her face. "I bet that’s the kind of destruction you leave in your wake, isn’t it? Carnage everywhere."

Alex added the drum brush, the soft wash of rhythm that kept them in time.

The pedal steel flourishes had been Reggie's idea, almost like a lick of a bass hook, little touches at the end of each line.

Reaching for the tap, she refreshed the tub with hot water. It stung just a little, the faint kind of sting that helped to ground her in the feeling of her body, as she closed her eyes and tried to listen to the backing instrumental rather than his voice.

It had been right when they were working on changing their sound, when his voice shifted deeper, raspier. The interpretation he used on the track is nearly perfect, hollow with grief and desperation.

_and didn’t you warn me about chasing the sun_   
_when your eyes were still searching the sky_   
_and didn’t i learn that you’d rather no one_   
_than leaving the weight of his shadow behind?_

It had been Alex’s idea to have Luke lay it as a solo vocal with her voice rising in harmony in muted laps against the chorus, shifting back and forth in the mix as if it were loose and wandering, unattached to anything.

On the chorus, his voice rose back up into the strongest part of his range, fluttering with the slightest touch of vibrato, the piano overtaking his voice.

 _oh i wanted and waited and tried_  
 _to love those dead parts of you back into life  
can't keep _ _staring down this loaded gun_  
 _when there ain't no stopping your heart on the run_

She remembered the day he laid the vocal track, how he glanced at her through the window as he sang in his home studio, voice softening on the word love.

After, he took her hand in his and led her out into his yard.

His arms circled her as they swayed and danced, watching the stars emerge after the sunset. There had been so much unsaid hanging in the air that she didn't want to spoil it, so she tucked her head against his shoulder and just breathed him in. Him and the stars and the sound of the crickets.

That's when she knew she loved him, she thinks. There, in his yard, on a summer night. An observation as simple as the seasons, a truth that she felt all the way down to her bones.

  
She knows he wrote about her, even though she's never listened to any of the songs. Between Flynn and Amy, most of the news about him never made it to her attention unless she went looking for it. (And she's never gone looking. Say what you will about her, but she's good at protecting herself most of the time.) But in the years when they were sliding onto parallel tracks, it seemed impossible to go anywhere without seeing his photo somewhere. Especially during that bad stretch when he made the covers of magazines for all the wrong reasons—attacking cameramen, skipping interviews, showing up drunk at gigs.

It sounds stupid now to hear her say it, but she never thought that he would write about her.

When they were together, it was their unspoken agreement—that they would write about stories only, that nothing they did should be able to be pulled and analyzed and torn apart by fans or critics to understand something about their relationship. (The songs they wrote when they were writing about each other and didn't know that they were writing about each other, she prefers not to think about at all.) But after it all went sour, when their feelings were too much for either of them to handle, they broke the rule.

Once, twice, and then a half-dozen times. Even if the names of the characters were changed in the songs. Even if the lines were vague.

 _He’s just trying to make a name off of you_ , Amy said. _I’ve seen it a thousand times. Any time there’s a natural star in a group, that's what happens. You get more heat by talking badly than you do by paying attention to your own work._

At the time, she hadn’t had any reason not to believe Amy, even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe that Luke would do anything like that. Not her Luke, who believed so deeply in the power of their music and of her talent.

Not her Luke, who believed that the band could get through anything together if they tried hard enough.

But the lesson of that year had been that her Luke wasn’t hers anymore, that her Luke had gone and been replaced by someone that she maybe never knew well at all.

And that was what they had agreed to, hadn’t it? A clean break of the world, his and hers portions divided and conquered however they saw fit, down to the music they made and sold.

And once they did, the story was so easy for the press to build—a bad break-up and the two of them not speaking, fighting about money, fighting about attention and writing credit, fighting about everything, and turning to their music instead to get the last word.

It got to a point where she could have delivered non-answers in her sleep—Amy's tried-and-true strategy of Acknowledge, Deny, Redirect.

Of course she understands why fans want to know, but no, she hasn't heard his new leak/single/album and she can't say if she thinks it's about her.

Of course she knows that the Phantoms fans are disappointed, but it's too soon to think about a reunion and they're all focused on their new music.

Of course she appreciates how much their music meant to people, but it's time for them to try something new. Thank you, thank you, and see you next time.

Some nights, it's easier to manage than others.

Some nights, she has to bite her tongue to keep from saying what she really thinks, to keep from saying that the lines he wrote about her cut too deeply even if she doesn't know, not for certain, that they're about her.

(But in a way, aren't they all about her?)

And if she can't keep them from asking, she does her best to keep things separate. She doesn't talk about him, doesn't bring him up, doesn't play any of the old Phantoms songs at her shows, doesn't listen to his music, doesn't think about him at all. But no matter how hard she tries to keep the boundary there, the reporters always slip back into their old habits. 

_Have you heard what he said about you? Have you heard about what he's doing? Have you heard who he's seeing now?_

No, no, no—she's just focused on her music, thank you very much.

_Luke says that he thinks you've changed. Luke says that your music is not what he expected from you. Do you have any comment?_

No, no, no—there's no bad blood between them, they just found themselves wanting different things, musically and professionally, and she respects that he's entitled to his opinion.

Luke's never cared for any of the showmanship of the non-answer, she knows. He always says the first thing out of his mouth, or something funny, something mean, something that he can pretend was a joke three weeks down the line whenever he gets a splash of bad publicity for it. Luke's happy to talk about her music and her albums in the press, happy to comment on her songwriting in public, happy to drag everything back up and act like he didn't.

But she knows about the cover.

She’s heard about it, even if she’s never seen it herself.

Amy called it pedestrian, Reggie and Alex warned her against watching it, and Flynn had said nothing at all, which was the strongest sign that she shouldn't go hunting for it.

If it had been closer to the break-up, she would have caved, but she was older, a little wiser, a little more wary of hurting herself for no reason.

But the reviews, she’s read. The stories about it, she's read. The dozens of comments on every social media page connected to him or to the Phantoms, begging for him to release it as a single, she's seen.

(And she can admit now that, yes, _Shirtsleeves_ was about him.)

If she's being honest, she wonders about it sometimes, about the power of him sitting there in the amphitheater at Red Rocks, playing the music that she wrote, singing the words that she carved out of her own heartbreak. She knows what kind of a performer he is, how much of himself he puts in the music, but she wants to know more.

She wants the details.

She wants to know what he was thinking. She wants to know if he changed it, if he felt compelled to change it or keep it the same, if he thought he was fixing it or honoring what she wrote.

She knows it isn't good to think about it, but she can picture him so easily. Sitting in the dark, his head bowed over the keys, his fingers moving clumsily through the playing. Maybe simplifying it, maybe slowing it down, his lips pressed up against the mic, his eyes closed.

He would have arranged it into a friendlier key, transposed it down maybe, but leaned hard into the emotion, rasping through the parts where she went high and thin, or growling his way through the parts where she went quiet. He's always preferred noise, always liked being big and bold and dramatic where she's gone for subtle builds.

Maybe he would have stripped out the extra instruments except for the guitars, a fleet of them roaring in late in the bridge.

She can picture him singing, and wonders if his voice caught on the chorus, on the accusations that she imagined him leveling at her.

She wonders if she was close enough to the truth to make him pause.

She wonders if he had the lyrics standing against the music shelf because he couldn't remember them. She wonders if he sang the wrong words anyway even though he had them there, or if he didn't care enough about the words that she wrote to bother. Maybe he improvised all of the lines himself.

But no, she's never looked it up.

She's never listened.

Sometimes, though, when she plays the song, she thinks about him, and that's more than enough.

(She's lied: she has heard one of his songs.

Years ago in Santa Monica when she was at the supermarket, picking up loose groceries and instant meals for her house which had sat empty of people or food for ten months. There was a scattered crowd of people, she remembers, but she hid beneath a baseball cap and sunglasses, her hair down. 

She knew it was him as soon as it blasted through the PA, the amp feedback sharp and screeching, the guitar yowling into life immediately. She found out later it was something from his first album, all of it sounding like vintage Sex Pistols because of course it would, because he had no one to tell him it was a bad idea.

_pledged allegiance, swore an oath_   
_gave everything you wanted most_   
_did my duty, served my time_   
_leave me hanging on the line to dry_   
_and don't you tell me about dignity_

The guitars raced through dirty runs in succession, bleeding into each other, and she tipped two cans of black beans into her cart and kept walking. She remembers the wheel on her shopping cart sticking and squealing as she pushed on towards the next aisle, though not in time or in tune with the music.

His voice turned jagged and rough as the guitars slid up, their high notes piercing through the vocals.

_so you were never my saving grace_   
_you were only trying to save your face_   
_and if it has to end, then baby let’s break it clean_   
_and i won’t ever have to say god save the queen_   
_no, i won’t ever need to pray god save the queen_

It cracked as he struck a sharp falsetto, the guitars collapsing into staccato rhythm beneath him.

 _your majesty!_ , he shouted into the mic, feedback popping through the mix.

She gritted her teeth and beelined for the checkout, and that was that.)

She texts him once she’s out of the bath. A quick message that she sends before she has time to overthink it.

_did you still want to write_

_tomorrow, before rehearsal_

His answer comes almost immediately. _ballroom?_

 _no_ , she texts. _let’s find a studio._

They meet at a studio close to the ballroom, and take one of the smaller practice rooms.

When she arrives, he’s already there waiting for her in the hall, his guitar case down on the floor, a cardboard carton of coffees in hand. “Hey,” he says, when she walks up to him.

He hands her a tall white cup, still warm to the touch. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.

He gets up from the floor with a shrug. “That’s all right. I figured…” 

“Yeah,” she says. “Thanks.” 

There's an upright piano in the center of the room, taking up most of the space, and dark acoustic foam along all of the walls. He kicks the door closed behind him as he walks in, heading to the opposite wall to unpack his guitar case as she turns towards the piano. She gives a few keys a test strike, listening to the pitch.

“It’ll do okay, I think,” he says.

The guitar pick’s already between his teeth, his fingers tweaking the tuning heads on his acoustic. The sight of it twists something low in her stomach, like she's stepped into a memory she forgot, into a world that she hasn't thought about in years. She turns back to her bag and busies herself with rustling through it, searching for her pen and notepad, for her phone.

She taps at her phone and cues up the song to play. “Did you bring your original?”

“Original what?” he says.

“Notes, music, whatever,” she says.

He taps the side of his head. “It’s all up here.”

“Jesus, Luke,” she says. “ _Still_? You still don’t write any shit down?”

He mumbles something around his pick that she can't understand, and she takes a seat on the piano bench and plays a chord.

“I’m okay by ear, but it’s not how I like to work,” she says. “You want to tell me what I’m doing here?”

“You were going to rewrite it, right?” he says, shrugging. “So rewrite it. Do whatever you want. Make it sound like you."

“Having a place to start would be nice.”

“E Minor.”

She plays it, and he grins.

“Nice,” he says. “Dark. Moody. Atmospheric.”

“Very you,” she deadpans. “What’s it called?”

“What?” he says. “The song?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You didn’t give it a title?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “It’s Untitled #1.”

She laughs in spite of herself, and jots a note down on the first page of her notepad.

"You're going to write that down?" he says, raising his eyebrows.

"Never know what can be important," she says.

"Yeah, all right," he says, shaking his head. "You haven't changed either, have you?"

She loops the track through while they work, comparing it against the scribbled sheet of lyrics that she made him write down in her notepad. Without her usual equipment, she strips it clean in her head, picking out the piano and the vocal parts first. She wanders around on the piano, transposing the chord, speeding up the rhythm, slowing it down, while he sits in the corner and plucks arpeggios on the strings.

On the original track, it’s bare for what she’d usually expect from him—the drum machine subdued, the bass shifting between a catchy riff and the anchoring pulse hanging behind the melody—and she tries to figure out the right balance of piano. She tries a series of different chord progressions before shifting into variations, speeding up the rhythm as she plays into the chorus.

“It’s too much,” he mumbles from the floor.

She leans on the sustain pedal and runs the intro again, leading from there into the chord progression. She can hear him make noises of increasing protest, but she plays through it.

And then he’s leaning into her space as he tries to study her notes, his chin hovering just above her shoulder. She can smell his aftershave, the back of her neck prickling at his nearness. “It’s not right,” he murmurs. “It’s too heavy for the beginning. You have to build into the dynamics so you can hit the chorus.”

She turns to look at him, her mouth pursing with annoyance. “You know you give me the same feedback every time?” she says. “Every single time.”

His grin is wide, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with humor, and she feels the familiar flutter of nerves in her belly. “Don’t make the same mistake every time then.”

She rolls her eyes, reaching for her coffee and sucking down a gulp before she replaces the cup to the top of the piano. Licking her lips, she turns back towards her sheet of notes.

His eyes dart towards her mouth briefly, a movement so quick she nearly misses it.

She rolls through the beginning again, her hands snapping quick and hard against the keys, shifting into a different key. Higher, major, happier.

He strums an answering note on the guitar, picking the rhythm underneath the melody. “Try to stay on tempo this time, hmm?” he says.

“Fuck you,” she says, her fingers trailing through into the transition.

He laughs, his foot tapping the tempo against the floor. 

It's dangerous, she thinks, how effortless it is to write with him, how little time it seems has passed when they're back in the studio together. She's forgotten that it can be this easy, this joyful.

She's forgotten how much they understand each other.

"What?" he says, looking at her.

She shakes her head, and plays an intricate arrangement. "Try to keep up," she says.

He matches her double-time on the guitar, picking fast and clean through the part. "You first."

  
By the time they finish, she has the lyrical start of a beginning, one that even he can say he’s happy enough with. As they pack up their notes and their instruments, he smiles at her, a faint, shy thing.

She takes her coffee in hand, and they start to walk together in the direction of the Hall of Fame.

He's never been able to walk in a straight line, and he grazes her side on occasion as they stroll back the way they came. It's surprisingly comfortable, she thinks, when she knows that it should be anything but.

“I know you didn’t have to write with me," he says, after a pause, "so I just wanted to say that I appreciate it. The chance.”

She takes a long sip of her coffee and hums. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “It feels like a big deal.”

“Why?” she says.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Because it’s us? Because nothing’s ever been a _small_ deal?”

She slows her pace, shuffling forward as she takes another thoughtful sip of her coffee.

"Hey," he says. "I wasn't trying to make things weird."

She turns to look at him, the handle of his guitar case rattling in the palm of his hand. "No, you're right," she says. "It's a step for us."

His eyes widen as he blinks at her, and she can see the panic reeling through the back of his mind. "Julie, I wasn't trying to push..."

She rolls her eyes. "Stop freaking out," she says. "I'm just saying—we can appreciate that it's a step."

"Yeah?" he says, raising his eyebrows. "In which direction?"

She turns back towards the path and keeps walking, opening up distance between them. And then he's sprinting towards her, level with her again, following her lead. She feels that buzz of energy between them again, that glow of possibility thawing the tension. "I don't know," she says, honestly. "I can't say that I know what we're doing. Do you?"

"We're..." he begins, faltering, "We're just being friendly."

"Friendly," she repeats.

"Writing together," he says. "It doesn't have to be anything. It's just...us."

She blinks at him, fingers fluttering against the edge of her cup. Her coffee's gone cool, but she sips at it to give herself something to do. “Us,” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Friendly,” she says, again.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, look, it’s—I don’t think it’s going to stop being weird or anything, but I think—I don’t know. It’s been five years.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I made a lot of mistakes in those five years,” he says. “In those ten years.”

“Yeah?” she says.

“You did listen to my first album, right?”

She laughs. “That’s a little harsh.”

He reaches for her arm with his free hand and gives it a light squeeze, and she stops in her tracks. “Hey, it—it hasn’t always been like it was right after. With me. And, you know, Reggie and Alex have been trying to get us to do this for years.”

She lets out a breath and shakes loose of his touch. “Yeah.”

“Sorry. I’m just saying that it’s a chance for us to talk. That’s all.”

“Talk,” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not every day we get into the Hall of Fame.”

“No,” she says. “I guess you’re right.”

“Yeah?” 

She raises a hand. “I just don't want us to get confused,” she says. "With everything."

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

His voice is quiet, remorseful. When she looks at him, he's watching her carefully, as if he's scared he'll spook her and she'll disappear.

“You hurt me back then,” she admits. “And you hurt the band.”

He glances down at the ground, nodding. “I know," he says. After a pause, he adds, "You hurt me too."

“Yeah,” she says. “So.”

They head towards the Hall of Fame building, and Luke darts forward to pull open the door for her. She glances at him sidelong, but he shrugs and waves her through. It's a slippery slope, she thinks, talking about the past, about the things that they regret, that they wish they could do differently. And no matter how hard she's tried, she doesn't trust herself to stay inside the lines, to know when she's slipping back into the past again.

He's always made her feel comfortable and in control, even when she isn't.

They head down the hall and swing a left towards the direction of the ballroom. As they gather outside the doors, he stays his hand on the door handle for a second, glancing at her. "Look, I know this isn't what you expected to deal with. It's different. But I'm just happy to talk to you again," he says, glancing shyly at the ground. "I missed you."

When she meets his gaze, his brown eyes are as warm and gold as ever, earnest and inviting.

Dangerous.

He bumps his shoulder against hers with a flicker of a smile. “Just think about it,” he says. “Now, come on. Before we’re late for rehearsal and they sue us for breach of contract or something.”

  
When they walk in together, Reggie and Alex stare at them, open-mouthed, their eyebrows up to their foreheads. She’s halfway to opening her mouth and saying something, anything, in their defense, but Luke shrugs and hops up onto the risers with nothing more than a mumbled good morning.

“Good morning to _you_ ,” Alex chirps, leveling a pointed look in her direction. “Ready to rehearse?”

Luke turns and looks back at her, running a hand through his hair. “I think we’re really making some headway,” he says, turning back to the boys. “Julie and I are rewriting the track we cut.”

“Oh, really,” Alex squeaks. “Is that so?”

She chucks her empty coffee cup in the direction of the wastebasket and strides up onto the stage with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Which one of you told him he could write for piano?” she says, untying her hair and tying it back up again. “Because he can’t.”

“Well,” Alex says, aiming his drumsticks at her, “As clever as _that_ was, just because I’m letting you change the subject doesn’t mean I’m forgetting about this.”

She blushes, ducking her head. She forgets how long they've all known her, how much they've seen her grow up. “All right,” she says, sliding onto the piano bench. “Are we rehearsing or not?”

Alex drives into a drum solo, a quick and clean cadence of beats ending on a loud cymbal crash.

Reggie grins. “Don't know about you, but he sounds ready.”

  
They do better this time around.

Reggie’s bass licks hit crisp and clean, and it feels for a minute like they’re just slipping into a jam session, the kind that they used to do when they had any off-time at all. She still has trouble with the piano parts, but she does a good enough job of hiding her mistakes that they can pass through. She forgets how easy it can be when they hit their groove, when it all comes together and it feels like they’re all running on the same wavelength.

As they head into the bridge, Luke improvises a riff on the guitar, a countermelody nesting underneath what she’s singing. 

“Hey,” Reggie drawls. “Getting fancy.”

“Just a little something I’m trying out,” Luke says, grinning at him.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Just don’t let it run on too long,” she says.

“Oh, like your runs?” he cracks.

Alex and Reggie whistle and hoot in the background, but she rolls her eyes. “My runs are clean,” she says. “Which is more than I can say for what you just did.”

Alex kicks at the pedal of the drum, bass drum rumbling in time with his laughter as he doubles over on his seat.

Luke shakes his head, fighting a laugh. “Reggie, you’re coming in late on the pick-up too.”

She shakes her head and starts into a slowed extended intro for _Finally Free._

Alex comes in after her, laying a soft sweeping beat underneath her piano.

“It’s not to tempo, guys,” Luke says.

“Yeah, it is,” Alex says, with a kick of the bass. “Here’s my tempo.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Hey,” Reggie says, slapping the bass. “Just let it flow, man. Let go and let it flow.”

As she rolls into the call and response in the bridge, he struts around to the front of her keyboard, rocking back and forth on his heels as she sings. She rolls her eyes at him, keeping her tempo on the keys while he watches her play.

His shoe bumps the leg of the keyboard stand, rattling it slightly.

“I got a spark in me,” she sings.

His body leans sharply towards her, his eyes locked on hers. “I got a spark in me.”

“And you’re a part of me…” she sings.

“And you’re a part of me…” he echoes.

“Now til eternity…”

He drops down to his knees and explodes into an extended guitar solo, shrill and spiky. After several seconds, he tilts his head up towards her, nearly eye-level with the edge of her keyboard. “Been so long and now we’re finally free…” he wails.

Alex snickers from the back. "Dude, what the fuck is that?"

Julie drops her elbow against the keyboard, which gives an atonal groan.

“You’re early,” she says.

“I thought it’d be a nice change of pace,” he says, panting from the floor, “Since everyone is late.”

"You're not keeping the solo," she says. "It sucked."

"Oh, come on," he says, glancing at Reggie. "Did it suck?"

Reggie gives a single, sage nod. "It did, indeed, suck," he says.

"No Van Halen for you," Alex calls.

She kicks at his knee from under the keyboard. "Outvoted. Back to your spot."

He gives a good-natured roll of the eyes as he climbs back up to his feet. "Bossy."

That night, he fires off a text about the song to her right before midnight. It’s an unfinished thought masquerading as a suggestion, a series of chords that he lays out in the text message with _into prechorus????_

It’s late, but she's still up, her mind wired and restless. She pushes herself out of bed, humming as she tries to hear what he’s hearing. _too close_ , she texts back. _where's your dynamics now?  
_

She forgets how Luke can be when he has his mind in a groove, and in quick succession, eight texts ping her one after the other. They’re suggestions or asking her for thoughts on this key change or that kind of chord progression, and she has the familiar memory of suddenly knowing that she isn’t going to be getting much sleep.

Back when they were living together and writing together, he'd do this all the time. Wake her in the middle of the night with his guitar playing from the living room and quiz her as soon as she wandered out to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing. And no matter how exhausted she would be, he always grinned up at her with a smile and played her all of the options, one arrangement after another, this option or that one, until she resigned herself to putting on a fresh pot of coffee and yawning through another writing session.

 _what do you think????_ he texts.

She sighs and glances at the digital clock on the nightstand.

She may as well.

 _where are you?_ , she writes back.

 _hotel_ , he writes. 

_piano?_

_all up here_.

She groans, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. _come to the ritz bar_ , she texts. _piano here._

  
There’s not much action going when she creeps down in her plainest dress, her hair tied up into a simple bun. There are a handful of businessmen hunting for action, a few clubbers finishing up their night, and some old men sipping at nightcaps. She heads towards the bartender and asks for the manager, flashing an apologetic smile as she asks them for a favor. 

Fifteen minutes later, and the staff are wheeling the unattended upright into the back room and roping it off for her.

She orders a bottle of top-shelf whiskey for their trouble and spends the minutes she’s waiting for him to show sipping at it and running through quick lines on the piano. The liquor is smooth, a pleasant heat rising up through her chest, warming her through to the bone.

When he walks into the back room, he’s dressed down in what must have been his clothes for the night—a plain t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

“What are you drinking?” he says.

She shrugs. “I called in a favor, so I might as well make it worth their help.” With a finger, she nudges the glass bottle down towards him. "Help a sister out."

He pulls up a chair beside the piano and leans forward onto his knees, breathless with all of his ideas. “It came to me when I was eating. I think we can do the progression like you laid it out, E minor into the G, and then what Reggie had with the bass line can go from that heavy thumping _dun dun dun dun_ to that crunchy feedback, that _rrr rrr_ —”

She takes a long sip of her whiskey, color rising into her cheeks, and meets his gaze. “What did I tell you about the reverb?” she says, flatly. “The way you have this song laid out, you don’t need to do all of that. Reggie’s bass part is fine. Don’t write more than you can take.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, “I’ve written Reggie’s bass part thousands of times.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says. “And he’s always fixed it after you did it.”

“He _has not_ ,” he says. 

She shrugs. “He didn't want to tell you and hurt your feelings.”

“Well, whatever,” he says. “Fine. You can still do the progression like you laid it out, and if you want to keep Reggie’s bass line the same, then we can modulate some of the stuff going on in the background. Layer the harmonies, do more with the toms, maybe, instead of the kick drum…”

“Stop rewriting other people’s parts, man,” she says. “We haven't even figured out any of the transitions yet.”

He plays a tinkling triplet on the high end of the piano. “Transitions,” he scoffs. "Who needs those?"

She blinks at him. "Luke. I swear to god."

"Come on," he says, drumming his fingers against the top of the piano. "E minor to the G."

  
Two hours later, she’s three drinks in and feeling tired enough to fall asleep at the piano when the bar staff come in and tell them they have an hour to last call.

She adjusts her posture on the bench and slips out of balance, crashing against the keys as she steadies herself upright.

He grips her arm as she sits back on the bench. "You didn't have _that_ much to drink," he says.

She shoots him a look. "I'm tired," she says.

They’ve made some decent headway—decent enough for the two of them writing together, anyway—which means that they’ve carved maybe a third of the way into the intro. Luke’s somehow still full of energy even with three drinks in him, his fingers quick on the guitar as he tries to fix the pacing in the pre-chorus.

She shuts the key cover on the piano and leans against the instrument, turning to look at him out of the side of her eye.

“What?” he says.

“I’m _tired_ ,” she repeats. “Aren’t you tired?”

“We’re so close, Jules, come on,” he says.

She groans, lifting the key cover again. “ _One more time, Jules, just one more_ ,” she affects in his voice, rolling her eyes. “If we do this, it really is going to be just one more. No 'and one more after that.' And then I'm going to go upstairs before I pass out and end up front page on _Us Weekly_ again.”

He arches a brow. “When was the last time you made cover on _Us Weekly_?”

“If you don't know, then you don't know,” she says. “Where do you want to go from?”

“Start from the pre-chorus,” he says. “I want to try this new run out. And then we can go into the chorus and try the harmonies.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re going to make me sing right now? Seriously? This late?”

“Oh, come on,” he coos, bumping her shoulder. “Your voice always sounds gorgeous. No matter what time it is.”

She leans back with a throaty chuckle, shaking her head. “Any time you used to want me to do something, you’d compliment me, you know that?”

Without waiting for him to answer, she counts him into the pre-chorus as he strums through the new chords. 

She’s listening with half an ear, but it’s impossible not to watch him, his focus sharp on the strings as his fingers shift on the frets, his lip caught between his teeth as he mumbles and hums his way through the melody.

He glances up at her, his eyes landing on hers as he nods her into the transition.

She drums her fingers against the keys, thrumming the rhythmic beats into the chorus. And as he mumbles his way through the melody, she sings the words, her voice thin and high as she stifles a yawn. 

_and i’m climbing the mainsail now trying to find you_   
_sparking an ember glowing into the night_   
_shedding all of the shadow crossing behind me_   
_hunting that beacon that once saved my life_   
_oh won’t you, won’t you hang a beacon on the mainsail tonight_

He watches her as she sings, and she shifts against his gaze, tossing her head as she finishes the chorus. The guitar fades behind the piano line, but he doesn’t turn away, just grips the guitar by the neck and watches her finish the end of the line. 

She stops, waving her hands with a flourish and a faint smile, as he grins. Her body shifts closer to him, leaning in towards his warmth, as heat rises up into her cheeks. Anticipation, she thinks.

He licks his lips, clearing his throat. "Good job," he rasps.

She wants to say something, to break the spell of the moment, but part of her can’t let go of how familiar it is, how many times they used to do the same thing when they were writing. Maybe it was because of how they wrote together, she wonders. Maybe it’s all muscle memory. Body memory.

“Okay,” she says, reaching to massage the back of her neck. “Now, I really have to go to bed.”

“Okay,” he says, rising from the chair.

She reaches for the tumbler and drains the rest of her whiskey, coughing slightly as her chest warms.

His knuckles brush against her arm, and she shivers.

"You all right?" he asks.

She's pink from the alcohol, and she nods lightly. "Yeah," she says, her mouth dry. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

In the low light of the early morning, she can mistake him for Luke years ago, when he was still bright and confident about how they would go out and change the world. It makes him look younger, the way his hair sticks up from all the times he's run his hands through it, the restlessness of his body, the sharpness of the excitement in his eyes. Everything about him when he gets into the flow of writing is infectious, she thinks, how happy he is to be working, how determined he is to push it through to the end.

She's always admired that about him--how open he is about the things that he loves, how it radiates off of him.

She's forgotten how much of an effect he can have on her, how much he makes her want to match him, beat for beat, idea for idea. It's something like competition, maybe, and a touch of something else.

"All right, boss," he says, chuckling. "I think you're done for the night."

He extends a hand to help her up from the bench and she takes it because she’s tired, because she isn’t thinking, because she forgets. His hand runs rough against hers, the palm warm and smooth, his thumb catching against the side of her wrist as he helps haul her up to her feet.

She feels it again, that tremor of something humming to life between them. 

“Want me to walk you up?” he says, voice low.

Danger, she thinks, alarm pinging faintly in the back of her mind.

She hums low in her throat and shakes her head. “You can walk me to the elevator,” she says.

So he does, his hands at his sides, brushing against the sides of her skirt on occasion as they walk towards the lobby. With the late hour, she can feel herself slipping between the past and the present, and she finds herself missing the weight of his hand on the small of her back, even as she knows that he hasn't touched her like that in years. That he has no right to.

They reach the elevators in no time at all, but he doesn’t head for the automatic doors out to the parking lot. He stands there with her, shifting his weight between his feet, watching the elevator make its slow descent from the penthouse.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” she says. “It’s fine. I'm in a hotel.”

“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

She clears her throat, and they watch the elevator dip down another few floors.

“I think we're almost there,” he says. “The song’s really coming together.”

She scoffs. “We have _maybe_ thirty-two bars,” she says. “Don't get cocky.”

He laughs. “Another verse and a chorus, easy.”

“Don't make promises you know you can't keep.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Guess so,” she says.

He extends a hand with a light smile, and she laughs because all of this is so ridiculous, because it's impossible to believe that they're here, five years later, barely talking, back to shaking hands and shyness. But she takes his hand, and his fingers close around hers, thumb stroking against her knuckles once, twice.

She sucks in a breath, listing slightly on her feet as she tries to collect herself. The blood's rushing to her head or to her hands, she can't tell, but she can feel warmth flooding her body, tipping down from her chest and into her stomach.

“Good night,” he murmurs.

“Good night.”

He takes one last look at the elevator and then turns on his heel towards the automatic doors.

"Luke?" she calls.

He stops, turning slowly to face her again. "What's up?" he says. "You feeling sick?"

She doesn't think about it, stumbling forward towards him before she knows what she's doing. He looks at her, his head tilted with vague concern, like he's worried that she's going to pass out or throw up and trying to figure out which, when she barrels into him, throwing her arms clumsily around him and pulling him close.

He doesn't breathe, doesn't move, his hands down by his sides where they were before she decided to launch herself at him.

She doesn't know what she's thinking, doesn't know what she expects, but the skin of her cheek is warm and she presses it against the bone of his shoulder as she takes a breath. He's solid underneath her arms, the same Luke that she remembers holding onto in the middle of the night, the same Luke that she used to hug after each practice, ahead of each show.

"Is this okay?" she breathes.

"Yeah," he says, his hand rising to press against the middle of her back. The heat of it burns through the thin fabric of her dress. "Yeah, this is okay."

It's okay, she tells herself, because this is who they were before, what they did when they were friends, what they shared between the four of them. It's okay, she thinks, it's the same, it's the exact same, even though it's after two, and they're alone in the lobby. Even though Reggie and Alex aren't here to join them, and it's the first time she's touched him in years.

It’s strange how familiar it all feels, how much he smells the same and feels the same, even though she knows that things are different now, that he’s older and the contours of his body have changed.

She wonders if he thinks she feels any different. She wonders if she's changed since the last time they embraced each other like this.

“Good night,” she whispers, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

Because she means _hello again_.

Because she really means _i missed you_.

His hand nudges against her hair, and she feels the nerves in her stomach ratchet tighter, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything but let his hands fall back to his sides.

She steps away with a shy smile, and his eyes are dark when he looks at her, his hands shoving his hair back from his head. “Good night,” he says again.

And despite the time, she thinks, she realizes, neither of them really know what they’re doing here at all.

Danger.

He's outside her hotel room door first thing in the morning, making small talk with Rodney, her head of security, and handing the other security guards all kinds of brown paper bags full of food. She listens to them for a second, talking about the weather and the Cavaliers, before she runs to the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face and tugs the complimentary hotel robe on over her pajamas.

She opens the door halfway, leaning against the frame, as she eyes Rodney.

"Morning, Julie," Rodney greets, backing away towards his post.

She lifts a hand in greeting and yawns. "Hi, Rod."

Luke looks bright and clean, his face pinked from the cold, jean jacket collar uneven against his neck.

“We’re not writing today,” she says, as he hands her the warm paper cup. Another brown paper bag dangles from his hand, grease soaking through and smelling amazing.

“I know,” he says, holding the bag out to her to take. “But still.”

“You don’t have to bring me coffee every day,” she says. "Or whatever this is."

He gives the bag another enticing shake. “I know what you’re like when you’re hungry,” he says.

“Luke.”

He stops moving and glances up at her and she’s suddenly aware of how early it is, how much she isn’t dressed, how personal this all feels. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“No, I mean—”

“I’m bringing you a—it's an olive branch,” he says, as she takes the bag from him. “I’m trying to…do better.”

She feels it again, the light promise in the air, the stir of something unspoken, opening between them, soft and tentative. 

“Thank you,” she says, “for bringing this.”

He ducks his head in a sheepish nod.

“I just—I want to be careful. I know that last night was..."

He arches an eyebrow.

"Nice," she offers. "But I don’t want to wander into something neither of us are ready for.”

He nods, his eyes connecting with hers once before darting away. "Yeah, okay," he says.

"Okay," she says. "Just so we're on the same page."

"Yeah," he says. This time, when he looks at her, his eyes are a little more guarded, and she finds she can't read him at all. "I get it."

“Okay,” she says. "But thank you."

She opens the mouth of the bag and peers inside where a ham, egg, and cheese croissant waits wrapped in parchment paper. Her favorite hangover breakfast.

"Thanks," she says again.

“Julie,” he says.

“Yeah?”

He retreats a few steps into the center of the hallway, working his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s just…” he starts, halting. “Nice. To talk to you again. To write with you.”

“Yeah,” she says, with a small smile. “I know.”

“I forgot how it could be,” he says.

She bites down on her lip, unsure of what else to say, and he nods his head again, shuffling his feet against the carpet.

"You don't need to bribe me with coffee and snacks every day," she says.

"No free meals for Julie?" he cracks, a little flat. "Since when?"

"Luke."

"I know," he says. "I know. I hear you."

"It's not that I don't appreciate it."

He shrugs his shoulders in a you're-welcome kind of gesture. "You just don't want to be confused."

She nods.

"Okay. I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah," she says. "See you later." She lifts her hand to wave, but he’s already turned to jog towards the elevators.

She watches him for a beat before she goes inside. 

The coffee’s just how she likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How_ is a Regina Spektor song, but for the purposes of the fic, imagine it covered by Little Big Town or something lmao.
> 
> I tried so hard, but man, I am sure the tenses got away from me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming on this ride. I've loved hearing your thoughts, feelings, reactions, so please drop a review if you feel so inclined. They keep me going.
> 
> I've been mulling a rating change for the next chapter--possibly a bump up to an M for, well, explicit content, shall we say. If you feel strongly about this one way or another, please let me know.

2032, SPIN

  
_Don’t call it a comeback._

_In 2029, no one was more on top of the world than Julie and the Phantoms. With the release of their album_ Polaris _, they earned a slew of Grammy wins and RIAA multi-platinum certification, and led a forty-stop international tour on their way to becoming one of the biggest bands in the world. But when you're at the top, the only thing to do is keep climbing and it's then, the band reflects years later, that the wheels started coming off the wagon.  
_

 _Renowned for their dedication, consistency, and artistic reinvention, the Phantoms charged straight into the studio, determined to jump into the next project when they would have been better served by a break. Listening to_ Cassettes and Regrets _now, it's easy to hear the tension and strain that would later divide the band. The lyrics and themes sound stale, lacking the narrative voice and keen observation of prior albums, the arrangements are overloaded to distraction, and the instrumentation sloppy and imprecise.  
_

_Relationships deteriorated, managers and the label had to intervene, and, just like that, a band known and respected for its creative output and camaraderie suddenly didn't have much of either. The damage spread from there. Band members Luke Patterson and Julie Molina ended their four-year relationship, rumors of a band break-up rippled through every corner of the Twittersphere, industry gossip ran rampant, and still the Phantoms stayed mum._

_Until now._

_Following a tumultuous year, including the conspicuous absence and subsequent return of lead guitarist Luke Patterson from the band, the Phantoms are back from the dead and ready to lay any doubts about their future to rest. As they set out on the “phantom leg” of their interrupted_ Cassettes and Regrets _tour, the band is more clear-eyed than ever about what they’ll need to do to move forward and put all the baggage behind them. When SPIN sits down with the four band members, we find them as determined as you might expect and surprisingly optimistic._

_For anyone else, it might be called an apology tour, but they reject that label outright. The focus, lead singer Julie Molina tells me, is on reconciliation, not regret, spanning internal dynamics as well as external ones. Known for the intimate relationship and transparency they’ve cultivated with their fans over the years, ranging from the early Sunset Curve days, they speak candidly of the challenges and disappointments they’ve faced in the wake of their latest controversies, and share what they’ve learned from going off the deep end, how the experience has forced them to evolve, and what comes next._

_(This interview has been lightly edited for clarity.)_

_**SPIN: So, first things first, what really happened in Prague?** _

_Alexander Mercer [Drums]: Luke?_

_[Laughter.]_

_Luke Patterson [Lead guitar and vocalist]: I mean, I can’t apologize enough for what happened. There was a lot of pressure on us during the tour, and when I had some family problems come up, it became really clear to me that I wasn’t able to balance those two things at once, and it all just…kind of got away from me. I chose family over the band, and I didn't communicate myself well in doing that and here we are._

_**It’s pretty unusual to leave mid-tour without a statement. How did you all adapt to his absence?** _

_AM: I think it’s pretty clear from looking at what happened that the answer is…not well._

_Reginald Peters [Bass]: To be honest, I think we were caught off-guard as much as Luke was by the whole thing. You know, you come to think of the band as a unit and when you lose one part of that unit, it becomes really hard to figure out how to keep going._

_Julie Molina [Piano and vocalist]: And it wasn’t like he was a small part of the band. He was the lead guitarist, and one of our lead singers. We relied on him, and it was a big deal to lose that._

_RP: I think if we learned anything out of this experience…_

_AM: We learned that we need to have a game plan. Like one of those earthquake evacuation plans, but for the sudden absence of a band member._

_RP: Disappearance insurance._

_AM: Promoters were not happy, I'll tell you that much._

_**What was surprising is that you’ve had such a longstanding reputation for consistency, which is not an easy thing in this business when you’re as successful as you’ve all been. What was the thinking behind this phantom leg, as you’ve called it?** _

_JM: When we do something wrong, we want to make it right. That’s the kind of people that we are. And I think that we understood that we really…lost trust with our fans because of the experience. And we wanted to build that back._

_AM: Promoters weren't happy, the label wasn't happy, management wasn't happy._

_RP: We let all of these people down, and we had the ability—the flexibility—to build that into our schedule, so we thought, why not? Everyone wants a do-over, right? And here's our chance._

_AM: It’s important to us to be able to preserve those relationships. That’s not just about selling records, or meeting the standards of the label, or whatever. That’s us. That’s who we are._

_JM: And it was really important to Luke that he have a chance to apologize to everyone he disappointed or hurt by what he did._

_RP: Right._

_**There have been a lot of stories coming out recently…** _

_AM: Love a question that starts out with rumors. Love it._

_**Well, since Prague, there have been stories about a lot of internal strife within the band. A lot of tension. Can you speak towards that?** _

_JM: I don’t know how much we can speak towards rumors…_

_**There’s been speculation about what precipitated Luke’s absence, and about how difficult it's been for the band to adjust to his return.  
** _

_RP: I think it’s fair to say that like all bands, like all people, we have our ups and downs. And we're in a position to have that be visible._

_AM: Everybody fights, you know? That doesn’t mean anything. Just because you fight with your brother over Thanksgiving about what to watch on Netflix, does that mean anything about your relationship with your brother? We’re family._

_LP: There’s been a lot of—the apology tour doesn’t begin with the fans, you know what I mean? It has to start with the band. They were the people I let down first, and we’re still working through that._

_JM: It's something that we were very aware of when he was coming back, how to address the issues that maybe contributed to him leaving in the first place. Something like that always has a tipping point, and I think his family emergency was the tipping point._

_LP: There are a lot of things that, when you start working, when you get on the road, it’s easy to kind of gloss over because there are other things to think about. People have dissatisfactions that they might tamp down, and you lose that communication. But we’re working on it._

_**So this work is something that's ongoing?** _

_JM: All relationships are ongoing, you know? Just because you're married doesn't mean that you stop working on the relationship._

_RP: It took us a while to find our footing when we first got together, and now we're finding our footing because we're in that...mid-life space._

_**What’s your hope for this leg of the tour?** _

_AM: I think we just hope to do better. Apologize. Get back out there._

_**Luke, you suffered some substantial personal challenges during the year. Of course, there was the hospitalization of your uncle, which precipitated your leaving the band.** _

_LP: Yeah._

_**I imagine it must have been really difficult to try to come back to a place where you’re focused on music instead of the challenges outside.** _

_LP: Everybody has challenges. Everybody has their limits. And with me, I think it took me running right up against the wall to realize that I was even reaching that point. And when—like you said, with my uncle, it immediately shifted everything into perspective for me, you know? What matters and what doesn't becomes clear when it's really life or death on the line._

_**And there’s been the break-up.** _

_LP: Yeah._

_**Your relationship has been such a major aspect of your work and your writing. Does that change things?** _

_LP: I—_

_JM: No, I don’t think it changes anything._

_LP: Right._

_JM: We’re still Julie and Luke at the end of the day. We’re just operating in a different capacity._

_AM: If anything, it means that we’ll just have to hear less of what’s going on when we’re on the road._

_JM: [Laughing.] Shut up, man._

_**How do you manage that tension alongside the work that you produce together?** _

_JM: It’s all separate, right? The personal and the professional?_

_LP: I was going to say that I think it all feeds together. We were musicians and songwriters independent of one another, and we know exactly what the Phantoms is as a band._

_JM: Right. We understand our responsibilities. Our duties are to the work first._

_LP: Right._

_**You’ve always had an acute sensitivity in your songwriting though, a kind of emotional vulnerability and honesty that’s shone through, which many people, including your fans, have read through the prism of your relationship. Does this shift things?** _

_JM: Any time there’s a break-up, there’s bound to be a shift. It’s an ending. Something’s ended._

_LP: There was a lot of trust there, and that doesn’t go away overnight._

_JM: It’s—what do they say? We’re consciously uncoupling? We started writing together before we ever got together, and we know how to return to that place—to just get back into that space. It’s about putting the band first, the work first._

_AM: Compartmentalizing._

_LP: That doesn’t diminish what we felt for one another. Or our friendship._

_JM: Right, of course._

_LP: And I think it gives us a new perspective to write from. A new angle on the things—the stories and the emotions—that we thought we already knew and explored._

_JM: When we decided to take that step into the relationship, we made a conscious decision that we wouldn’t drag the band into it. Everybody knows all the horror stories. We’re very aware of that, and both of us value the music over our own personal shit._

_**Your body of work has dealt pretty explicitly with grief and loss. And with everything over the past year, it must be putting all of this into perspective for you.** _

_LP: We’re not entirely about loss, you know? Our artistic—what we’ve tried to do in our work goes beyond one category, or two, or three._

_**Is that something that you cultivate in your work? An awareness about those themes, or in adapting autobiography towards it?** _

_LP: We’re not—_

_JM: We don’t write with a thematic intention._

_RP: Our process is pretty organic. We start with the baseline that somebody’s started—a hook, a riff, a chord progression—and we develop what feels honest, what feels fresh._

_AM: We try to be real about the things we write about. Whether that’s losing someone or a break-up…falling in love…whatever, we want to make sure that we’re being true to the experience._

_LP: Right. But we don’t like to cannibalize our lives for the art._

_JM: Cannibalize is a strong word._

_RP: [Laughing.] A little violent._

_JM: I think what he’s trying to say—_

_LP: I know what I’m saying. You don’t have to clarify what I’m saying._

_JM: Add some context, maybe._

_AM: Okay, I think—_

_LP: All I’m saying is that—since we’ve reached this point with our art, with our fans—you know, we’re recognized everywhere we go. Anywhere. Around the world. There’s an expectation now that we produce work that’s autobiographical. But we never agreed that everything we created was going to be an absolute reflection of our life, you know? Not everything is meant to be consumed publicly, including us._

_**You’re saying there’s no chance of hearing some break-up songs in the future.** _

_JM: [Laughter.] Never rule anything out._

_LP: No. No chance._

_AM: Not if I have anything to say about it._

_LP: I’m not a fan of this trend of expecting autobiography from artists, and I think that’s one of the things we’re working on with the music we’re writing now. How can we get back to the root of the sound?_

_RP: Always the fucking sound, man._

_LP: People want us to be completely available, completely transparent, and they forget that we’re people too. There are things that we want to keep to ourselves._

_JM: And there are times that we recognize that that’s not possible. It’s a balance._

_**You've had a strained relationship with the press over the years.** _

_AM: Some of us, yes._

_JM: [Laughter.] I think that it's hard to try to live your life when someone is always snooping into it._

_LP: It's hard. I'm not going to lie. It's hard. It's a hard job to do, I'm sure, but it's hard to live with, and I enforce my boundaries._

_**Honestly, the two of you seem to be handling this really well. I can’t say that I would do the same.** _

_RP: You should have seen them at the beginning._

_JM: [Laughter.] I mean, I think you’re giving us too much credit._

_LP: It’s been hard._

_JM: It’s an adjustment._

_**It seems like this represents a pretty clear break point for the band—stylistically, musically, maybe thematically even, from what Luke was saying. And you’ve been known for your reinvention over the years. The genre shift from The Reckoning to Batten Down to Polaris is just incredible. So have you started thinking about this next evolution?** _

_AM: Everybody likes to talk about eras now. Like it’s_ Reckoning _era, or_ Polaris _era, or whatever. I think we just like to think of it as us. We’re always changing. Chameleonic, right, that’s a word?_

_RP: We listen to a lot of music, and it informs our direction. And your tastes change, or you learn new things, new techniques. You know, we were getting into steelpan recently. I know for Alex…_

_AM: Oh, yeah, those calypso rhythms? They’re so underrated, and they can be so complex. And there’s never enough marimba in my life._

_RP: That’s what he always says. More marimba. Like more cowbell._

_**So you’re saying, we can expect a calypso album.  
** _

_LP: No. Absolutely not._

_AM: Bongos. Babalu._

_RP: He’s playing word association with you now._

_JM: We like to work on things we think are cool, sounds that we’re obsessed with. We chase our interests, and that’s how we find what comes next. I think it’s why each album that we’ve done—it never sounds tired. It doesn’t sound forced._

_RP: We’ve always given each other the freedom to explore what we want to do too, musically and creatively. That’s part of what’s great about working with people who know you so well._

_JM: We let Reggie do whatever he wants because he’s good at it._

_AM: Yeah. And none of us know how to play bass._

_JM: Even if Luke thinks he does._

_LP: But it’s not by accident, you know. We set an intention, a course, and then we execute it. We have a vision and we execute it._

_**What’s the vision going forward?** _

_AM: I think we’re doing a lot of soul-searching about that right now._

_RP: Yeah, we’re coming back from—from the highs of where we were after 2029 and after_ Polaris _and all the awards. There’s a lot of baggage that comes with that—that I think we didn’t anticipate. We didn’t know what we were walking into, and it all kind of fell apart._

_JM: You could say that about everything that happened with the Phantoms._

_AM: We’re having an identity crisis._

_RP: But we're figuring out how to put the pieces back together._

_**You didn’t know what you were walking into?** _

_JM: We were kids, you know? There’s a naïveté and a kind of openness that you have when you don’t know what you’re doing. When you just walk into the studio and start playing around. Look at any kid that starts playing the pots and pans in their mama’s kitchen…_

_AM: And I think to Julie’s point, we’re quick learners. We’re fast on our feet. Once we had the debut out, it was like…that’s not the sound we want, that’s what the label wants. We adapt._

_LP: There’s a lot about this business that I think we had a hard time learning—you know, that that’s what it was really like._

_JM: But we grew. We changed._

_LP: I mean, I think that there are lessons that we learned, but there are still challenges that come with the territory. We still—there are things about it that I don’t like, things that we do for the label and not for the music, and that’s just how the business is, you know what I mean?_

_**Would you say there’s a tension between the group right now and the industry?** _

_LP: I think so. And not just the industry, but the entire—the entire universe of—the idea of fame._

_AM: I definitely understand why people get sick of it._

_**Sick of what?** _

_RP: I think he means there’s challenges to being in a band that we might have underestimated before._

_AM: Right. It’s like a long marriage._

_JM: That’s a little unfair._

_AM: It’s not like a marriage?_

_JM: No, I mean—_

_LP: They’re right. I mean, there are things we just didn’t know when we signed up._

_JM: We knew that visibility would be part of it. But we never figured out how to navigate that visibility and that responsibility. We're learning to do that now._

_**Knowing all of that, how do you move forward?** _

_AM: I think we’re thinking about what we want to do next. Build an album from the vision and figure out who we are.  
_

_RP: Start with giving back to the fans, with making things right. And then the rest of it, we figure out as we go._

_JM: There’s work involved, definitely. It’s not easy. But we’re all invested in making it work, in seeing the Phantoms live again._

_LP: And we will. There’s no doubt about it._

  
He’s never liked having his picture taken.

When it’s part of the work, it’s one thing. Show up to a studio, wear clothes somebody hands you, stand the way somebody tells you to stand, look this way, look that way, go home. But when things were at their peak, he couldn’t go anywhere without finding photographers strewn across his path like little firecrackers, popping off at his feet.

He knows what his reputation is. Not as bad as it used to be, but still. He’s one of _those_ celebrities, the ones who couldn’t handle what comes with the territory, the ones who loved the fame but resented the attention because he wasn’t being paid enough money. No, what he hated was having to feel like he was hiding from the world, like he couldn’t just go out into the street and be himself because being himself suddenly meant having to be available for anyone, everyone, everywhere at a moment’s notice. Sign this, smile here, take this photo, selfie please, selfie please, smile, smile, smile, while he was trying to figure out a way to smuggle in time to squeeze in a coffee without sending someone else out to get it for him.

It’s true, he’s never liked to feel trapped. Since he’s been sixteen, he’s always set out to make his own choices and decisions, and suffer the consequences. But it’s impossible to do that when other people watch you so closely, impossible to move when every time that he does a million camera flashes go off.

When he came back to the country after Jamaica, it had been nearly impossible. They camped out in front of his house, in front of his parents’ house. They swarmed his car any time that he tried to move, flashes firing off against the tinted windows until it felt like his eyes were seeing white spots anytime that he blinked. They ransacked his trash, they fought his security, they camped out across the street from where he was eating, where he was shopping, shouted things to make him look one way or the other, and got the most unflattering photos of him that they could because they sold.

So yes, he’s broken a few cameras, he’s split his knuckles open once or twice. He isn't proud of it. But back anybody into a corner, and find out exactly what they’re willing to do to set themselves free.

Nobody likes being hunted.

All that to say, press days aren’t exactly his favorite.

  
No matter how bad he’s had it, she’s always had it worse.

It’s part of being Julie Molina, part of being the face, part of being a woman in front of the camera, he supposes. But she’s always been able to stand up to it better than he can. It used to be something he marveled at—how, no matter what was going on, she could do her make-up in front of the mirror and practice her smile and then be ready, no matter how bad a day she was having, no matter how exhausted she was.

She would stand in front of the photographer line for hours, moving however they told her to, turning to face one way, then the other. Smiling, or not smiling. Arms up or arms down. Until somebody—Rhea, sometimes, him, usually—came and led her off towards wherever they were supposed to be going, whatever they were supposed to be doing. 

He could never understand it—how easily she accepted it, how she could smile through whatever she was going through and pretend that everything was fine.

He never understood not wanting to fight to take back some small part of yourself. To own it because it was yours.

  
They have a full crew waiting for them in the ballroom in the morning. It's a tie-in photo shoot for the event, and he dresses himself down in a t-shirt and jeans and waits to be styled. Alex and Reggie look more dressed up than he is, their hair already slicked back with product.

He runs a hand through his hair, damp from the shower, and tries to burn off some of his restlessness by jumping up and down.

Alex greets him with a hug and a small grin. “I know these are your _favorite_ ,” he says. “You ready? Rehearse all your little pithy answers?”

“Some of us just aren’t naturally witty and charming like you are, Alexander,” Luke says.

Alex laughs, shaking his head. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

“Shut up.”

“You do your own hair today?” Alex says, wrinkling his nose. “Because I can tell.”

There’s a flutter of noise when she comes into the ballroom, surrounded by a team of seven. He sucks in a hard breath when he sees her—glittering and made-up, dressed and styled to shine. She’s in a deep gold dress, cut low in the front with square shoulders and little crystals that sparkle every time she turns under the light. It clings to her, highlighting the deep color of her skin and the smooth lines of her muscle tone. Bright red lipstick emphasizes the fullness of her mouth.

She glows.

Reggie’s arm snaps hard against his chest. “Breathe,” he hisses.

He takes a shaky breath as Alex laughs softly under his breath.

The cameras all flash in succession and the noise fills the room, a soft whirring click like the flutter of a million butterflies taking flight.

She turns towards them with a bright smile, lifting a hand in a wave. “You guys ready?” she says, with a quick glance at him.

Alex slings an arm around his shoulder. “Like riding a bike. Right, Luke?”

Julie laughs. “You look like you’re going to have a tooth pulled,” she says.

He winces.

“It’s just a camera, Luke,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Reggie says. “Just lay back and think of England.”

“I don’t think that’s the saying you want to go for,” Alex says.

  
And then it’s the circus: a team of six people, all women, shoving hangers into his hands, pointing him to a changing area, and leaving no part of his face or hair untouched. 

They’ve transformed part of the ballroom into a staging area, umbrella lights positioned in a fairy ring at the edge of the room, props and chairs and stools scattered around behind the various cameras.

Reggie’s the first one out of hair and make-up, and he leans back against one of the large black fabric blocks as he waits for them. They have him dressed like a cross between Elvis and Saturday Night Fever-era John Travolta in some slate gray jumpsuit that costs more than he’s spent on clothes all year. “Relax, dude,” he says. “You look like you’re going to lose it.”

The make-up lady leans into his face and reminds him for what must be the sixth time to close his eyes and to stop touching his face so much. There’s a graze of a sponge wedge against the side of his nose, and somebody else starts brushing his eyelids with something. “Okay,” she says. “Be still, okay? Do not touch anything, okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” he says.

“Yeah, Luke,” Alex booms. “God.”

“Okay,” the make-up woman says. “You’re done. Begone with you. Don't touch your face.”

He stands and jogs towards where Reggie and Alex stand waiting. They’re watching Julie go with the photographer, moving from pose to pose seamlessly with little direction.

He’s always hated the business of posing, the awkwardness of having to think of himself from the vantage point of the camera instead of just inhabiting his body. He’s never liked having to think about how to stand, what his shoulders are doing, what his hands are doing, what makes a good line. He prefers to have the safety of his guitar to hold. 

The photographer jerks at the bill of his snapback, and clicks his tongue. “Angie!" he barks. “Can we get Julie and Luke blocked first, please?”

Two of the photographer’s assistants drag him by the hand out towards her. Julie’s in what looks like an incredibly dangerous pair of shoes, which push her a few inches taller than he is. The assistants treat him like a living doll, shifting his arm over her shoulder, positioning his chin, adjusting his hair.

The photographer puts his eye to the viewer and then pulls away. Does it again, checking the angle. “Ang, the line’s not going to work,” the photographer says. “Can you center her, please? Maybe switch their positions, have him on the floor between her legs?”

Luke raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” he squeaks.

But they’re already in motion. Julie perches on the edge of the ottoman, legs straight out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. Her dress for the shoot is short and tight, and as they settle him down against the floor, he can feel his shoulder graze against her bare leg.

The photographer’s assistant, Angie, comes and moves one of Julie's hands further down against his shoulder, nearly grazing his chest.

“Can you tilt your head up?” the photographer says. “Luke?”

He tilts his head back, trying to level his gaze at the camera while the photographer keeps clicking his tongue.

“You got to relax,” Angie says, poking at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “You’re tense.”

“I don’t usually sit like this,” he says.

Julie snickers.

“Great,” the photographer says, snapping a few shots. “Actually, Ang?”

Angie looks up with a quick nod like a startled lemur. “Yeah?”

“Let’s make this a little more intimate,” he says. Snapping his fingers at Alex and Reggie, he points to the ottoman. “Can you guys sit on either side of her?”

Alex glances at the size of the seat. “Uh,” he says. “I don’t think there’s…”

“We’ll make room, we’ll make room,” the photographer says, easily. “Ang?”

Angie stands in front of them, tilting her head one way, then the other, her hands perched on her hips. “You mean to…”

“Yeah, you got it,” the photographer says.

“And you’re going to…”

“Exactly.”

“So we just have to shift the angle…”

“Yeah, and open up the space…”

“And that’s where we’ll put the other two,” Angie says. “Okay. Got it.”

Luke squints, but Angie is moving into gear, gesturing Julie forward on the seat until she’s almost half on him and half on the seat.

Angie taps him on the shoulder. “Tuck your legs back, and lean on him, all right?” she says, to Julie. “Luke, you’re going to scoot as far back as possible against the seat, okay?”

He feels her arms loop around his neck first, her chin coming down to tuck against his shoulder. Her hair, teased and blown out, presses softly against the side of his neck, her perfume sweet and subtle, and he glances up towards the camera, careful not to breathe too hard in case he spoils something.

Angie drags Alex and Reggie over then, one on either side of them. Reggie strains for balance with the sliver of seat that he has, his toe knocking against Luke’s back more times than necessary.

He hisses under his breath. “Can you stop that?”

Reggie snickers. “Sorry, man,” he says. “I’m just trying to…sit.”

The photographer snaps his fingers in quick succession. “Ang,” he says. “Can you angle her face?”

Angie comes and tucks her fingers underneath Julie’s chin, lifting it a few centimeters towards the camera and turning it slightly towards him.

Luke steals a glance at her—the bright, wide eyes, the full red mouth, the thickness of her false lashes—and exhales.

“Luke,” the photographer calls. “Eyes front, please.”

Alex’s leg bumps his knee, accidentally on purpose. “Yeah, Luke,” he whispers.

“And try to relax,” the photographer says. “You’re tensing up in your neck again.” The camera fires at them several times in quick succession with bright white flashes. “Julie, that’s great, keep it up. And Ang, can we adjust the hair?”

Angie steps forward, brushing a few of Julie’s curls back behind her shoulder.

“Great,” the photographer drones, snapping off a few more. “Smiles everyone.”

  
After the group shots come the paired shots for the alternate collectible covers. 

He guzzles down a coffee on the sideline, watching the photographer move Alex and Reggie through a series of poses. Back to back, shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other, Reggie in Alex’s arms. 

Julie sits next to him in her seat, practically subdued, scrolling through her phone at a clip.

And then the photographer lowers his camera and calls for the two of them. He rubs his palms against the sides of his jeans and heads for the shooting area. 

“Calm down,” she says. “You’ve done this a thousand times.”

Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean that he knows how. All he knows is that there’s a magic to being in front of the camera, to knowing how your body looks, and he’s never quite understood it. It’s different when he has an instrument in his hands or when he’s singing on stage, when the cameras are watching him like anybody else would. But posing like this, trying to make himself look attractive or refined, has never come naturally. He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be trying for.

He’s seen the photos that have come out of the magazines over the years and each time, he finds himself surprised by how casual and relaxed he looks. As if the camera had surprised him in the middle of running an errand or doing a chore.

The photographer smiles at them both. “Julie, you’re perfect,” he says. “Luke, can we get you to turn a little bit towards me? Angled? And smile, please? _Smile_.”

He readjusts his feet, angling himself on the diagonal to the camera, slouching into a hip.

“Okay, great, great, and can you put your arm around her?”

The fans switch on and there’s a mild breeze ruffling against them as he slides an arm around her waist, his other hand slipping into the front pocket of his jeans.

The photographer checks the angle and frowns. “Can I get a light check, please?”

One of the other assistants runs out with a square device, and scans the area with a wild-eyed expression. “It should be good.”

“Should, but isn’t,” the photographer chirps.

“Loosen up a little, Luke,” Angie says from the sideline. “Take your hand out of your pocket. Get a little closer. They want you center.”

Julie steps closer to him until she’s nearly pressed up against his side, but she turns her face towards the camera, her hands landing on his shoulders.

“We’ve got a pro here,” the photographer quips, as he checks the shot again. “Okay, Julie, hands maybe a little further down, soften the elbows in? Luke, can you move your hand up towards her back, please? Maybe come a little closer?”

If he comes any closer to her, they’re going to be doing something other than taking photos, but he mumbles something and shuffles forward the tiniest inch. 

“It’s okay,” Julie breathes, staring out at the camera.

She closes the distance between them and then he’s just standing there, holding her in his arms, like they’re posing for a prom photo or something.

Angie runs in from the sideline and fixes Julie’s hair, tucking it behind her ears and fluffing it for the fans to catch just perfectly.

“Okay, great,” the photographer calls. “Sexy, sexy. We’ll do one smiling and one without. Julie, face?”

And whatever that means, Julie understands, because then the camera starts going off in quick bursts, bright white light that he smiles through. 

“Smaller smile, Luke,” the photographer calls. “Great, and tilt your chin down…”

When he does it, the photographer pauses and frowns.

“Actually, Julie, can we get your head against his shoulder a little bit? And Luke, you can go back to how you were before…”

He raises his chin slightly.

“Great,” the photographer calls. 

He can feel the weight of her head settle against the crook of his shoulder, and he relaxes into it as she turns and blinks up at him.

He swallows hard, glancing down at her for a moment, when he hears the shutter rapid fire.

“Eyes on me, Luke?” the photographer calls.

He fixes his smile and looks up, waiting for the flash of the cameras.

  
After they finish up, he changes out of the loaned clothes and back into his regular ones, running to join Alex and Reggie by the doorway.

“That was weird, huh?” Alex says. “Haven’t done that in a long time.”

“You’re better at it,” Luke says. “I never know how to stand, or what to do with my hands.”

Alex bumps his shoulder as they start heading towards the lobby. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “We both know that you had other things on your mind.”

Luke coughs. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think, dude,” Alex says. “You don’t need me to explain anything to you.”

“He means Julie,” Reggie says.

“Thanks, Reg,” Alex cracks.

“No problem.”

He scoffs. “What about Julie?”

“Eyes up, Luke,” Alex says, in a gruff imitation of the photographer. “Eyes up, eyes up, look at the fucking camera, Luke, up here, Luke. You might as well get it tattooed on your forehead.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says. “It’s hard to look anywhere else when they have you all frozen and whatever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Alex says. “I’m sure it has nothing at all to do with Julie being there, and everything to do with how you can’t remember how to be a human being in front of a camera.”

“It’s fucking weird, bro,” Luke says.

Reggie shrugs. “Not too bad,” he says. “Didn’t take too long. Just a couple hours.”

“For _pictures_ ,” Luke says.

Alex nudges Reggie in the side with a knowing look, and he knows they’re already shaking their heads at him. Even when they were with the Phantoms, he hated this piece of it—needing to step out in front of press, give non-answers to everything, smile and pretend like they were being asked a fresh question when it had been his fiftieth of the day.

After Prague, that had been his entire schedule. Sitting in front of panels full of journalists or individual reporters, and giving the same contrite speech and shuffle to everyone he offered a quote. _I had a family emergency that came up while I was on tour, and obviously, I never meant to put my bandmates in a position to answer for me. It was all very sudden, and it was a failure of communication on my part for which I take complete responsibility. But I hope this doesn’t take away from the work and the passion that the Phantoms have had from the beginning, and that this doesn’t communicate anything other than my deepest respect for our fans around the world and in the Czech Republic, and I look forward to the next time that I can perform there._

Julie’s always been the best at press face.

Something with her smile, he thinks. It’s impossible not to believe in what she’s telling you when she turns the full force of her smile on you. 

But he’s seen what it looks like when her smile is turned on just for the cameras.

He’s seen her sit in front of hundreds of reporters and lie through her teeth.

_Of course we’re really sympathetic to everything that Luke’s gone through. The Phantoms have always been a family, and we know that he’s been having a really difficult time. We’re always going to be here for him, to support him with whatever he needs and give him all the time to sort it all out._

And later, _We understand how this might be hard for our fans, but the Phantoms will still go on, Luke and I will still be friends and bandmates who love and support one another, but we’ve made this decision together and we think it’s the best way for both of us to move forward and focus on what we really care about—the music._

The worst is when they release the statement on their split. It’s full of carefully worded language, all of it shaped and massaged by Rhea and her team, by the label and their teams, until none of it sounds like them at all.

And for months after, it’s all they’re talking about—what it means for the band, what it means for the two of them, how they’re coping. Because the first thing anyone wants to do after a break-up is talk about it with as many people as possible as openly as possible.

But Julie doesn’t complain.

She doesn’t even hesitate. All her answers are canned and neat, punctuated with a vacant smile or a staged laugh.

_Of course we’ll always be in each other’s lives._

_Of course we’ll always feel something for one another._

_Of course we’ve put it all behind us, and we’re looking forward to the next stage in our lives._

_We're happy for each other. We're happy._

He can’t remember how long they repeated the same lines over and over for the cameras until it almost felt like it was real.

  
The magazine puts together a full spread about the story of their band, full of old photos, promotional and candid, a timeline of their history, and memorabilia. He’s struck by how young they all look, how excited and unsure they are at the beginning of their story. 

There are other things he’s forgotten about too: old paparazzi snaps of them, hand in hand, looking like they’d like to crawl under the nearest rock, tour photos of their early years, looking damp and lean under the stage lights, album photos that are too awkward to look at with anything resembling impartiality. The spread covers their story pretty closely, even if it does lean into the more salacious parts with particular glee. (There’s two paragraphs on their “reveal” in Amsterdam alone, which he can’t bring himself to read. But the fan photos of them are plastered to the margins and he’s struck by the moment all over again—the weight of her in his arms, the cloud of her perfume hanging over him, the feeling of her laugh as she kissed him.

He can feel her energy radiate through the photos—her body tense with anticipation, smile wide, fingers fluttering on the microphone.)

Towards the bottom come all the other details that he wishes he could forget. There are photos of him from Jamaica, hiding out in the corner of the bar, sunglasses on, hand up to shade his face from the camera. And then, there are the post-Prague tour photos.

It’s strange to see how normal they look. 

There’s nothing of the tension going on behind the scenes, nothing that he can read of how pissed she was all the time back then, how sullen Alex was, how checked-out Reggie was. He can still remember those nights on the tour bus, none of them speaking to one another, Julie fuming at him every time she so much as glanced in his direction.

If he’s being honest with himself, he knew he couldn’t fix it. Not after everything with Jamaica, not after she drew the line outside Rhea’s office, not after those first few weeks of silence, but there was part of him that couldn’t just let it die. Not Julie, not the woman he thought he would have by his side for the rest of his life. And maybe that was what was so hard about letting her go, knowing that he chased away the best part of his life to go after a different version of the dream he’d had since he first learned how to play guitar.

He doesn’t blame her for wanting to walk away.

Julie’s always been made to be a star, been better at navigating the whole system, at dealing with all of the ways it bleeds into her life. Music is one thing, but entertainment is another, but she’s never really drawn a hard line between the two. But even if he could do it all over again, he knows that nothing would have changed.

What he wanted was impossible. 

What he wanted was to keep the two of them separate from the world, to make their music and leave the rest of it behind whenever they signed off for the day. But there was no Julie and Luke outside of Julie and the Phantoms, and the world loved them too much to let them go off into the sunset of their own lives. He knows that if she would have listened, if she would have forgiven him, it would have gone at some other point down the line, some other line that he crossed when he knew that he shouldn’t have. She’s always been able to grin and bear it through everything, and he’s never been able to do anything but stomp his foot and ask why they couldn’t get what they wanted—space, time, each other.

He doesn’t blame her for going after what she wanted, for leaving him behind to keep the dream of her life alive.

He doesn’t blame her for being the shining star that they all knew that she was.

He doesn’t even blame her for leaving him behind.

All he can blame really is himself.

  
But there were times too when he could still feel it—that flicker of a spark between them, the way her eyes, her body, would turn towards him whenever they were on stage, the pull between them that made him aware of where she was and what she was doing. It seems easy to say, but he can remember it clearly, those moments on stage when the anger in her eyes would soften, when she would look like the Julie that he remembered, when she would smile or laugh at him and he would feel something lighten and lift off of his chest.

It sneaked up on him, the familiarity. But even then, he always knew that it wouldn’t last. The show or shoot would end, and then she would retreat back into herself or slip off with Alex and Reggie, whispering quietly with them while he finished packing up his guitar case and headed back to the hotel.

In those early days of the _Cassettes and Regrets_ tour, the three of them clung together like they hadn’t in years, and he was left to himself most of the time. He remembers killing time in his room, emptying the mini-bar or scrolling through hours of TV that he can’t remember just to avoid looking on his phone or in the newspapers or magazines. He remembers hearing them crawl back from wherever they went in the early morning, the sound of her drunken laugh ringing through the empty hallway against Reggie’s loud cackle.

But what he remembers most is the quiet loneliness of it—the way that the family he built shut him out, the claustrophobia of it all, the gray shadow of the day bleeding into everything. What he remembers is thinking constantly about how it all started—in one room, one garage, with the four of them living off of Hot Pockets and on his single couch, with the brightness of her voice and the boundless hope for their future. 

He always stayed up to listen for the sound of them coming down the hall, to make sure they came back.

(And then there are the things he tries to forget: Alex and Reggie’s voices bleeding through the walls, muffling the thick noise of her sobbing from the hallway as they tried to talk her down, the stumbling cadence of her steps as they led her towards her room.

He remembers sitting in the dark, tightening and relaxing his hands, wishing that he could open his door and go to her and knowing that it would be the worst thing that he could do. He remembers wishing he wasn't the absolute last person she would want to see.

So he would sit and listen—to her crying, to Alex cheering her back onto her feet, to her shaking voice as she tried to pull herself together.

 _I just miss him_ , she cried, _so much, and I—I don’t know what to do._

He could picture them rubbing circles against her back, bracing her up between them as they marched her down towards her door.

He never overheard what they told her.)

  
And then there’s Sydney. The closest thing to a normal show they played that tour. 

He can still remember the energy of the night, the crowd clapping through every song, the set list seamless from the moment they stepped out on stage. She had been on fire that night, her voice flawless, marching around on stage larger than life, riling the crowd up to a frenzy.

They were all on point—Reggie improvising a solo on the bass, Alex playing the sharpest he had all tour. It felt like when they first started touring, the four of them playing for each other and goofing around on stage in the tiniest of theaters, playing to drunks talking through their set.

That night, he almost believed that things between them were thawing.

Seated center stage, she played through the intro into _Stand Tall_ , sneaking glances at him while she sang.

He approached the keyboard, playing against her harmony, and she rose to her feet, her hands slamming a rhythm against the keys as she rocked out. She turned to dance with him, smiling like he hadn’t seen her do in months.

And when he came around, playing a crisp lick to extend the lead into the bridge, she ran a hand through her hair, watching him with a curious smile. Leaning down over her shoulder, he pressed his mouth close to the mic, mumbling through the next few lines.

She shoved at his shoulder, laughing as she sang.

And there was that lightness again, the rush of nerves that ran through him whenever he was close to her.

He leaned forward just slightly, the ends of their noses nearly brushing, his hands itching to touch her. And, for a second, it seemed like she might have leaned in too.

  
After they finished, she waited for him in the wings of the stage, pacing in neat lines back and forth. When he finally made his way backstage, she snapped, “Don’t do that again. I thought we were clear.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It was for the show,” he said.

She gave a small nod. “If that’s what you want to tell yourself,” she said. “But don’t make things more confusing than they have to be.”

The crowd outside rattled their feet against the seats, anxious for them to come out for an encore. Reggie and Alex watched them from across the room, guzzling down their drinks. 

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m not trying to do anything.”

“Okay,” she said. “Good.”

When they made it back for the encore, she didn’t look at him again at all.

(There’s video of the show from that night: her rocking out behind her keyboard, nodding along with Alex and Reggie as they played through their hits.

He stands off to the side near the wings, his eyes sharp on her as he plays, his fingers sloppy against the strings. If he really listens, he can hear how off he is, a beat or two ahead of the rest of them, but he doesn’t know if he was paying attention to anything else.

Anything else besides her, near enough to touch, singing out to the crowd. Besides the memory of her, and how they used to be.)

  
Even dressed down, Julie outshines the rest of them. She’s in a pair of dark jeans, her hair combed loose and long down her back, in a simple white t-shirt that clings to her. There’s a break after the photos and before the interview with the EW team, so the four of them head out to lunch together— _just like old times,_ Reggie says, smiling—and he hears her laugh more than he has in years.

He’s forgotten how Reggie and Alex know exactly what to say to make her comfortable, and they head for one of the Italian places nearby that lets them book out an entire room.

“Eating red sauce in a white shirt,” Alex clucks with concern, and Julie punches him in the arm.

“I never get to see you guys anymore,” she says. “And I’m going on tour soon, you’re going in the studio. It’s going to be at least half a year until we can do this again.”

Reggie clings to her side with a fake wail. 

He takes a seat at the table and unfolds the napkin, tossing it into his lap. 

“I’m going to miss this when it’s over,” Alex says. “When we have to go back to our tragic real lives.”

Julie laughs. “What are you talking about?” she says. “You were on the cover of, like, _Out_ two months ago.”

Alex scoffs, and the waiter comes by to bring them a bottle of red. Luke can spot the spark of recognition in his eye, though he tries really hard to tamp it down. “Yeah, _Out_ ,” Alex says. “It’s not exactly _Vogue_ , is it? I mean, even Luke’s been in _GQ_.”

He grunts in answer. “What is that supposed to mean?” he says. Affecting a high voice, he repeats, “ _Even Luke’s been in GQ?_ ”

Alex gestures at him. “Look at yourself,” he says. “Look at how you dress.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“It stopped being 1995 a long time ago. Don’t know how to break it to you.”

“It’s my style, all right?” 

Alex flashes his eyebrows, lifting his hands in apology. “Doesn’t mean it’s good.”

“All right,” Julie says. “Stop fighting.”

Alex shrugs. “Thought you missed us,” he says.

“Missed you,” she says. “Doesn’t mean I missed your bullshit.”

Their phones all start buzzing, one right after the other, Julie’s pulsing in quick succession against the table long after theirs have stopped. Julie picks up her phone and scrolls through her notifications with a slight furrow in her brow.

She clicks her phone off.

“So what do we think?” Reggie says. “Pizza?”

Julie shoots him a look.

“Oh, come on,” Reggie says. “We’ll split a pie. You’ll be fine.”

"I am about to go on tour," she barks at him.

"You'll be _fine_ ," he repeats.

“Tell that to my manager.”

“No, thank you,” Reggie says. “That woman scares me.”

It’s weird how normal it feels. The four of them split a pizza, orange grease soaking through paper napkins, talking about going on tour, talking about music, talking about nothing. Alex and Reggie are halfway through writing their new record, and they dominate the conversation for a moment, running song ideas, melodies, harmonies by him and Julie until it feels like old times, like they’re going to go from this back to the garage studio to try to put it all down on paper.

Julie tosses her pizza crust on her plate and leans back in her seat, glancing at him. “So what’s next for you?”

He shrugs. “Tour.”

She rolls her eyes and mimics him. “Tour,” she repeats. “Yeah, and after that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Probably back to the studio. Maybe some weeks off. Maybe write with Alex and Reg for a bit.”

“If we let you,” Reggie says.

He laughs. “Right.”

She wipes her fingertips on her napkin and shrugs. “You didn’t do too bad today…with the thing,” she says.

“High compliments,” he says.

“Like a deer in headlights,” Alex says. “You forget how to act when they have a camera on you. It’s wild.”

Julie turns to Alex with a smirk. “Remember that shoot in France?”

Alex howls. 

Luke grins despite himself, pointing at her. “That’s not fair,” he says, as Alex and Reggie devolve into fits of silent laughter at the table. “I had food poisoning.”

She rolls her eyes. “You were hungover,” she says. “And you were the only one who spoke French and none of us knew what was happening.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” he crows. “Somebody told me to do those last couple shots because it couldn’t hurt.”

“You can’t blame me,” she laughs. “You chose to do it.”

Alex grins. “You can blame me,” he says. “I was trying to get you fucked up.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Julie says. “Don’t give him an out!”

"I didn't know he would actually _do_ it," Alex says.

Her laugh dies down to a soft giggle. “You have to let him live with his bad choices.”

Luke balls up his napkin and flings it in her direction. “You’re a hater, you know that?”

She flashes him a wide smile, her nose wrinkling with a laugh. “I’m a what?” she says, leaning in as if to hear him better. “A what?”

He laughs. “Shut up.”

  
They sit down with the reporter after lunch in the ballroom. They’re all a little tired, a little sleepy, and they show up a couple minutes late with coffees in hand, taking a seat on the ballroom stage while they wait for their reporter to get set up.

Her name is Molly, and she’s beaming at them all the entire time, flashing a small tape recorder in her palm before she sets it down against the stage. 

“It must be really surreal for you all to be here,” she says. “Getting inducted into the Hall of Fame.”

Alex sniffs. “A little weird.”

“An honor,” Julie says.

“Yeah, we’re thrilled,” Reggie says.

“Did you have an idea of the kind of reception you would see, especially once _The Reckoning_ came out? Did you write it with any kind of specific intention?”

Julie glances at them, kicking her feet against the stage. “I think we knew that we were trying to define our sound a little bit better,” she says. “That was when we really started to get confident with our sound.”

“To work with producers who knew what we were trying to do,” Reggie adds.

“It wasn’t until after the first two albums that the label started to trust us,” Alex says.

“They wanted the receipts,” Reggie says.

“Yeah,” Alex laughs, “They wanted to itemize us as long as they could.”

Luke hums. “I don’t think they thought of us as anything other than a joke until that album,” he says. “Everyone was still talking about us like we were just making music for preteen girls.”

Julie glares at him. “Which is an audience we owe a lot to,” she says.

“Right,” he says. “But they underestimated us until we started getting more attention from the critics.”

Molly smiles at him. “Of course, Luke,” she says. “There’s obviously been a lot said about your friction with the label, with the process. Do you want to add anything about that? Did you feel like the Phantoms were being limited, or limited your creative process?”

Alex bats his eyes at him. “Yeah, Luke,” he says. “Were _we_ limiting your creative process?”

“I don’t think that’s a fair question,” he says. “The label is concerned about metrics. Stats. How many albums did you sell? How much money did you make? How much money does it cost to make? And that's their job.”

“But you felt like you weren’t playing to the right kinds of fans?” she nudges.

Julie sighs. “If I can jump in here…”

The reporter’s eyes sparkle. “Sure. Julie Molina, the expert.”

Julie’s smile flattens. “There’s always a push and pull between what you want and what the label wants, and depending on what you’re working on, on the team you have assigned, on how you talk about it, they can understand your vision or they can push back. Sometimes that can be a rewarding process, just hearing their feedback and understanding what they think you’re doing. And sometimes it can be unproductive.”

“Very diplomatic,” Molly says. “How has it been being back? There’s obviously been a lot of discussion over the years about bad blood and rifts, feuds, and things like that. But it seems like you’re all in good spirits.”

Julie gestures to all of them. “We’re all here, aren’t we?”

Reggie shrugs. “People don’t understand how much time you spend together on the road when you’re working or touring,” he says. “And at the time, around _Polaris_ , we were just working such long hours and getting on each other’s nerves.”

“So does that mean the Phantoms are ripe for a comeback? A reboot?”

Alex shakes his head. “We just got _Sunset Curve_ up and running, and we’re recording a new album,” he says. “One reboot at a time, please.”

“I think people want us to be the same people we were five, ten years ago,” Luke says. “But we’ve changed. It’s impossible to deny that.”

“Right,” Julie adds. “We’re living, breathing people. Our music won’t stay the same either.”

“Exactly.”

Molly smiles. “Can you share with us what’s going to be on the set list?”

The four of them glance at one another with secretive smiles.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Alex says.

  
Molly comes up to him afterward, a notepad and pen in hand. She’s smiling and trying not to look like she is, her fingers tucking her hair behind her ears. “Is there anything you’d like to add?” she says. “Off the record?”

It’s _Entertainment Weekly_ , not some hard-hitting newspaper or industry magazine, so he shrugs. “Not really,” he says. “I think we said it all in the interview.”

“Okay,” she says.

Towards the doorway, Julie, Alex, and Reggie are looking at them, waiting for him to finish up before they hit up their next photo shoot. 

She tears off a sheet of paper and hands it to him. “If there’s anything that you might want to add to the piece, just let me know,” she says.

He takes the slip of paper from her, unfolds it and glimpses the scrawl of a phone number.

“See you around,” she says.

He shoves the scrap into his jean pocket with a shrug, and heads towards the doors.

“Ready to go?” Alex says. “Or were you too busy with something else?”

Julie’s eyes flick over him, quick enough that he isn’t even sure it really happens. Shaking her head, she turns back towards Reggie, leaning her arm against him as they make their way towards the door.

“She wanted a quote,” he says.

“Yeah,” Alex says, popping his mouth. “I’m sure that’s all she wanted.”

It’s been so long that he’s forgotten this part of it: how much other people have tried to insert themselves into the question, how much they’re nothing more than fantasy objects for other people.

There’s never been anyone for him besides Julie until—well, until after, until Julie wasn’t a possibility at all anymore.

There’s Julie Molina, and then there’s everyone else in the world.

He wonders if she ever worried about it, if she ever thought about him wandering when it was beyond clear that he’s never thought of another woman when she’s in front of him. 

But they never talked about it. Not that he can remember.

Maybe they thought they were beyond it somehow, that their friendship would protect them from all the little stings of figuring out a relationship on the road. When it came down to it, the only voices he’s ever weighed in considering his relationship with her has always just been the two of them. No matter what the label said, no matter what the fans said or did, he never would have let it touch whatever they had. Not if he could help it.

(As they walk towards their next photo shoot, she glances at his pocket, smirking lightly. Almost challenging him to say whether or not he’s going to call her.

“Don’t let it burn a hole in your pocket,” she says.

He studies the shadow of a curl against the curve of her jaw, and nods. “Is that your professional advice?”

“Just a tip,” she says. “From an old friend.”

“Uh-huh.”)

  
They agree to meet at the hotel bar that night to go over the set list. There are certain songs that aren’t negotiable, the ones that fans have come to expect from them no matter what they’re playing— _Edge of Great, Take it in Stride, Turnkey_ —and then there’s everything else. They all have their favorites and their least-favorites, and he remembers when it would take them half a day just to figure out the order.

Reggie and Alex are there by the time he walks in, already a drink in, and he orders one for himself and moves to join them.

Alex drums his hands against the table. “Ready for this, boys?”

Luke coughs a laugh.

“I can’t even remember the last time we put together a set list,” Reggie says. “Tokyo?”

Alex winces. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t take three hours.”

When it comes to the set list, the biggest obstacle is Julie. She obsesses too much over the transitions, overthinks the order they do the run of the songs, gets stuck between tracks. He’s always been an on-the-fly guy when it comes to this, happy to bump things around day of if they want to, but she’s never liked deviating from the list.

Luke grins. “It’s not me you have to worry about.”

“Well, all I’m saying is that I’m not secretary anymore,” Alex says.

“Yeah, but it can’t be Luke,” Reggie says. “His handwriting sucks.”

“You started thinking about what you want to play?”

“It’s a greatest hits set, man,” Alex says. “Don’t overthink it.” 

Luke drains half his drink. “It’s not me you have to worry about,” he repeats. Leaning towards the side, he glances at the doorway. “Where is she, anyway?”

Reggie raises his eyebrows. “She’s a big star now, you know,” he says. “Not like us.”

Alex hits him in the side of the arm. “We have a cult following,” he says. “We’re niche.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“It’s not like her not to be on time,” Luke says.

“Yeah?” Alex says, dryly. “You hang out with her a lot now? Know her schedule?”

Luke drains the rest of his drink and rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says.

Reggie shrugs and takes another sip of his beer. “Come on,” he says. “It’s Julie. She probably has a good reason.”

  
Fifteen minutes later and it becomes clear the reason is Jonah Klain.

Or so says all the tvs in the bar, the tweets.

Alex and Reggie follow it in real time from their Twitter notifications, scrolling through at the table while TMZ cameramen follow them through the streets of Cleveland as Jonah comes in from the airport. All to support Julie, the press coverage coos.

No matter what the boys think, he hasn’t been living under a rock. He’s heard the news, even if he hasn’t been following it, and it’s as impossible to go anywhere without hearing Jonah Klain’s name as it is to avoid hearing Julie’s. He’s one of the biggest action stars in the world, attractive in that corn-fed, high-school football way, if you like that sort of thing, his wide face and muscled body draped on billboards around the world.

“What is he even doing here?” Alex says, fingers tapping rapidfire against his phone.

“Come on,” Luke says. “You know why.”

The rumors have been around for months: the two of them on the covers of all the tabloids at the supermarkets, caught holding hands, caught walking next to each other with coffee cups in hand, heads ducked away from the cameras. He remembers it well—slipping out in their kind of armor, sunglasses and hats, scarves and bulky coats, pretending that if they hid well enough, no one would be able to see them. Pretending like they could move out in the world and do whatever they want without having to answer for it.

Maybe now she’s found someone else who understands that kind of life, who doesn’t hate it as much as he once did.

It should make him feel grateful, shouldn’t it—that she’s found someone that gives her what she needs, that knows what kind of life she leads—but all he can feel is this tightness inside his chest. 

“He must be here for Julie,” he says, rolling the outside of his glass between his palms.

“Maybe,” Reggie says.

He scoffs. “Reg,” he says. “Please.”

Reggie shrugs. “I’m just saying,” he says. “He doesn’t seem like her type.”

“And how would you know what her type is?” Alex says.

“You pick things up when you’re sensitive like I am,” Reggie answers.

Luke shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “Guys,” he says. “I’m going to get another drink. Then, set list.”

“What about Julie?” Alex says.

He shrugs, nudging his glass towards the outside edge of the table. “She gets here when she gets here,” he says.

“All right, boss,” Reggie says with a salute.

“Want anything?”

They both shake their heads and wave him off.

He’s standing at the bar, waiting for the bartender to bring his next drink, when he sees her.

They’re standing together in the lobby, close enough to whisper without being heard. Jonah looks in person like he does in the movies—his shoulders broad, hair a dusky blonde, built like a Baywatch lifeguard. He’s leaning down to talk to her, and she keeps shifting on her feet, her eyes focused on his. 

Jonah leans forward, and Julie tucks her hair behind her ears, grinning up at him with a face that he remembers in the back of his mind. Whatever he says sends her into a small burst of giggles, her palm pressed over her mouth as she hits him with her free hand. 

Luke digs the butt of his hand against the edge of the bar, glancing for the bartender.

He shouldn’t be looking.

He shouldn’t be looking, but he’s never been good about doing things for his own good. Outside, she’s leaning up on her tiptoes, her arms looped around his neck, face buried against his shoulder in a close embrace.

With a hard breath, he tosses a few bills down to tip the bartender and orders another as she slides him his first.

“Same?” she says.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be in the back room, but I’ll come back for it.”

The bartender scrapes his bills off the counter and smiles. “All right,” she says.

He takes a long sip of his drink, and makes his way towards the back.

A hand pulls at his arm, stopping him.

When he turns, she’s there, smiling up at him. “I thought it was you,” Julie says.

“Hey,” he says. “We were wondering where you were.”

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I had something run over.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We haven’t gotten anywhere with the set list yet. We wouldn’t start without you.”

Her smile is soft, the corners of her mouth lifting gently, and he feels an urge to take her into his arms and kiss her.

“Okay,” she says. “So let’s get to it.”

  
(They decide on all the big hits for the set, but Julie makes them reorder it about six times.

Reggie and Alex nix all the complicated songs, complaining about having to relearn their old parts and trying to play them clean. But he wants at least one, something that distinguished them for the artists they were trying to be, something that shows the work that they put in.

What they can’t agree on is what to do with their later stuff.

He hasn’t listened to or played anything from _Cassettes and Regrets_ since the end of the tour, and he’s not in any mood to start, given everything that happened. But it’s Julie who decides to kill anything from _Polaris_ that isn’t Polaris (the track), just because she doesn’t like how the album turned out— _which is crazy_ , he says, _since we won like eight awards for it._

She shakes her head. _Play it if you want to, but you’ll do it without me._

 _Without you, we're just_ and the Phantoms, Reggie says.

 _Come on_ , Luke says. _Nothing from our best album?_

Alex squeaks a hum. _Is that our best album or do you think that’s our best album because you wrote on it so much?_

Julie laughs.

 _That’s not fair_ , Luke says.

Alex reaches for the set list and drags it towards him. _I don’t remember half of these fucking songs anymore,_ he says. _So just pick the ones I might still know, all right?_

 _That’s why God invented rehearsal_ , Reggie says.

 _No, that’s why the band builds an easy set_ , Alex says. _Leave God out of it._ )

  
They’re the last ones to leave that night.

He’s lingering at the bar, finishing up the last of his drink and wondering if it’s worth it for another, when she slides in at the stool beside his. “If this is about the set list,” he says, “I swear to god.”

She chuckles, and waves the bartender for a glass of wine. “It’s not about the set list,” she says.

“Good. I don’t think I can listen to Alex bitch any more tonight.”

She arches a brow. “Like you remember your old parts either.”

He laughs. “I can fake my way through.”

“You like to improvise, you mean,” she says. “And then nobody can stay on their part, but as long as you get to play a solo…”

The bartender slides her a glass of white wine, and she leans back as she takes a sip.

“You’re up late,” he says.

She takes another measured sip. “It’s not every day that your band goes into the Hall of Fame.”

“No. It isn’t.”

They settle into a silence, and he calls for another drink just for something to hold in his hands. 

He can’t get the sight of her and Jonah out of his head, and he hopes that he isn’t going to have to scrape it out by consuming an irresponsible amount of alcohol tonight. They’re older, he thinks. He’s let it go. None of it should matter to him anymore.

Except he can’t help but think of how she used to lie in bed late at night, talking about nothing, sharing every thought that passed through her head, and how he wants to be the only person to know who she is in those quiet hours. It doesn’t belong to anyone, but he thinks maybe if it did, it should belong to the two of them.

The bartender pours him another double, and he takes a sip, feeling the heat slide down his throat before warming his chest.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to them while they’re here.

He doesn’t know how long it’ll last, if it’ll last at all once they leave Ohio.

“We had a good run,” he says. “I think we did.”

She blinks at him, saying nothing, but her fingers wrap a little tighter around the stem of her wine glass.

“The Phantoms,” he says, with a sip of his drink. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I know what you meant.”

All of the questions he wants to ask her sit on the tip of his tongue, held back only by the amount of whiskey he hasn’t finished drinking. He wants to ask her what they’re doing, what Jonah means to her, what it’ll look like once they’ve packed up and left for the week. But if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to know. He’d rather live with the hope than be left with the certainty.

“So when does your tour kick off?” he says. “Right after this?”

She shakes her head and drains half her glass. “I don’t want to talk about the tour.”

He turns towards her. “Okay,” he says. “So what do you want to talk about?”

There’s a quiet sigh as she turns towards him, crossing her legs. Her eyes are bright and open, unguarded in a way that he doesn’t remember seeing in a long time. “I guess…” she says, tracing the lip of her glass with her finger, “I just wanted to know how you were doing.”

“How I’m doing,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” she says.

He leans forward, glancing at her eyes. He’s had too much to drink to not feel like he wants to be honest, but he’s sober enough to know what kind of a bad idea that is. But that’s the thing about trafficking in the past—sooner or later, everything becomes a conversation about all the things you didn’t do, didn’t choose, didn’t say. And if he starts saying all of the things he’s been holding back over the years, he’s afraid that he won’t be able to stop. “Why are you asking?” he says.

Her lips flatten into a thin line as she huffs with annoyance.

“No,” he interrupts. “I mean—I mean, why are you asking?”

“I thought you wanted to try,” she says, waving her hands. “Being friends.”

He looks down at the bar and tosses back the rest of his drink. “Okay,” he says. His hands tighten against the edge of the bar as he digs his nails against the grain of the wood. 

“Okay what?” she says. “Okay to being friends?”

He waves for another, and the bartender refills his glass. “Yeah,” he says.

She looks at him through her lashes, her finger keeping a pulse against the stem of her glass. “Okay.”

He raises the glass to his lips and takes a sip, lets the liquor burn against his tongue. “I’m sorry I ruined it,” he says, after a beat.

He can’t look at her, so he doesn’t. All he can hear is the rustle of her skirt as she shifts on her seat.

“I—there aren’t any excuses,” he says. “And I know you don’t want to hear it. But still. I had to say it.”

Her hand bleeds warmth against his shoulder. 

“Now or never, right?” he says.

He turns towards her and finds her leaning forward, nearly off of her seat, her thumb rubbing gently against the cotton of his t-shirt.

“Julie,” he says, faintly warning.

Her hand comes up to cup the side of his face, and he closes his eyes, leaning slightly into the warmth of her hand. It’s too much, he thinks, too confusing to pull apart, but he doesn’t want her to pull away, doesn’t want to feel the shock of the air against his skin like a fresh reminder of losing her.

When he glances at her, she’s still looking at him, her eyes wide and curious. 

“What are you doing?” he says.

“Looking at you,” she says.

He breathes slowly through his mouth, and her thumb skates lightly along the apple of his cheek. It’s too late to be here, too late to be having this conversation, too late to be drinking. “You put _Heart on the Run_ on the set,” he says.

She nods silently.

He tilts his head, and her hand trails down his jaw, her knuckles brushing against the underside of his chin before it falls away. 

He swallows. “Why?”

She takes a thoughtful sip of her wine, a slight pink rising into her cheeks. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t,” he says. “It’s better that way.”

She drains her glass. “You know, I was so angry with you,” she says. “Before. And I was so scared that I was losing it all over again. Everything that I did, that I built, after my mom, and you were just—you were—you were you, and I couldn’t…”

He reaches for her arm before he can think about what he’s doing, squeezing the hard muscle of her bicep lightly. “Julie.”

“I could have—” she starts. “I wanted to call you.”

He brushes a phantom strand of hair behind her ear, and she closes her eyes at his touch.

“You don’t know how many times I…”

“I need some air,” he says, rising clumsily off of his barstool.

She turns away from him with a soft sigh to face the bar. “Yeah.”

He fishes for a handful of bills and leaves them in a crunched-up pile on the counter. “You want to take a walk?”

She studies him silently for a moment. 

“It’s a nice night,” he adds, weakly.

“Yeah,” she says, pulling her purse strap over her shoulder. “Yeah. Why not?”

  
They walk along the waterfront, the paths mostly clear of tourists, the lights rippling across the river. They’re walking close enough for an accidental brush of the arm every few steps, though neither of them say anything.

He slows as they round the curve, turning to lean against the metal guardrail. The moon is golden in the sky tonight, glowing around the hazy clouds that pass over it. He hasn’t wanted a cigarette in a long time, but his hands are itching for one now.

She comes up next to him, her hands grasping the rail as she presses herself against it. In the low light of the streetlights, her hair blowing loose with the breeze, she looks relaxed, more comfortable than he’s seen her in ages. She looks like the girl he once knew.

“I don’t want it to end,” he confesses.

She tucks a stray hair behind her ear, angling herself to face him. 

He can’t stop looking at her. At the way the light catches the apple of her cheek, at the warm, dusky glow of her skin against the night. “What?” she says.

He shrugs, and gestures towards the sky. “This,” he says, vaguely. “All of it. I don’t know—it’s not going to be like this when you go back to your…life.”

“Luke.”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “I’m not asking for anything,” he says. “I know that you have a whole—that things are different now.”

“Yeah,” she says. “A lot’s changed.”

He nods. “It just feels like I’m waiting to wake up, and realize that this was all in my head or something.”

“There are a lot of things,” she says, quietly, “that I would have done differently.”

He nods and turns his gaze back out to the water. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

“Do you ever…” she starts, trailing off into silence.

“What?” he says.

She shakes her head and turns back towards the water.

“I just don’t want to do this,” he says, “and have to…lose you again.”

The history of their years stretches on between them, and he can hear her shoe scuff against the concrete. There’s not enough time to unpack everything that went wrong, he thinks, and at some point, they’re going to realize that it’s too late and that it’s time to head back to the hotel and pretend that everything is as it ever was. But he’s tired of pretending like he isn’t aware of everything that she’s doing, that he hasn’t been thinking about her non-stop over all those years, that he doesn’t think about her all the time.

He wants to come clean about it all—about the bad years, about all of the things he wished he could have changed, about what he wants now. And if he’s being honest, he doesn’t even know what he wants more—to make music with her again, to have her as a friend, to have her in his house and in his bed. All the parts of their relationship were connected somehow, he thinks, even before they ever had a way to talk about it. It’s how his life breaks: before-Julie and after-Julie. Nothing can change that.

“It’s going to, though,” he says, “And I know that.”

She wrinkles her brow, clicking her tongue at him.

“You’ve got a whole other life with—with other people, and I know that,” he says.

She steps towards him, her shoes clicking loud against the sidewalk, and then her arms are wrapped around him, her cheek pressed against his chest. She’s soft in his arms, nearly up to his height in her heels, and he wraps his arms around her loosely, too nervous to breathe. He wonders if she can hear how nervous he is, if she can hear how fast his heart is beating.

“Luke,” she whispers.

“What are you doing?”

She gives a soft laugh. “If you have to ask…”

A weak smile pulls at his mouth. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say it.”

He expects a goodbye or a weak line about how they’ll always have each other in their lives, how she thinks about him like a brother, like a friend, or, worse, maybe news about what she and Jonah are planning. Maybe she’s engaged, maybe they’re already planning on getting married. What he doesn’t expect is for her to sigh and lean against him further.

He holds her like that for a minute, their breathing sinking into the same cadence, the only sound the lap and churn of the water underneath them.

Her hand comes up to graze his cheek again. “Why did we let it go so long?” she says.

“Julie,” he says.

She stretches up onto her toes, and leans in close, her breath hot against his cheek as she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

She’s so close he can feel her every breath, can feel how much she’s shaking despite how she presents herself.

“Julie,” he says again, warning. “We can’t.”

She blinks at him, her eyes bright in the low light, and then she’s rising up again, her eyes level with his as she waits for permission. He leans in without realizing, his lips parting slightly, and she takes it for the invitation it is, touching her mouth to his in a kiss. Her lips are soft over his, tasting faintly of her wine and her lip gloss, and his mouth pulls at her bottom lip lightly as she pulls away. 

It’s too familiar, he thinks, but she tastes like he remembers, surrounds and overwhelms him just like he remembers, and all he wants to do is live inside this moment when there’s nothing but possibilities and no one but him to keep her company.

All he wants is for her to be happy.

All he wants is to be the one who makes her happy.

“You’re thinking too much,” she whispers against his mouth.

“We can’t,” he whispers, and she lowers herself back down onto her heels. “Your…”

“It’s not real,” she says, against the fabric of his shirt. His hands anchor against her lower back, and she rocks forward in his arms, her hair rustling up against his throat. “Jonah—it isn’t real.”

But he doesn’t know how to tell her that he doesn’t know if this is either.

This version of them, right here, right now, in Cleveland.

This version of them, suddenly shiny and bright as a new penny, thinking only about what they’ve let pass them by.

So he holds her in his arms, her skin radiant in the moonlight, and allows himself a little delusion of hope.

  
They’ve never had the language for it.

Everything about them went beyond words, went beyond understanding. It just was, and it made sense, and he couldn’t explain anything else beyond that. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, the strongest person he knew. She made him laugh, and she wrote the most touching pieces of music, and she drove him crazy, and all of it together made sense in a way that nothing else in the world did.

They didn’t know how to talk about it so they wrote about it. They sang about it. They built it into the chords, into the teasing riffs they had whenever they were playing, in the quality of their playing, in the strength of their voices. And when they couldn’t do that, it was in the way that she reached for his hand whenever she walked, in how she would lean her weight against him on the tour bus whenever she was drifting off to sleep, in how she stole his hoodies when she thought he wasn’t looking and claimed them for his own.

If he thinks about it, they’ve always operated on the unspoken, on the looks and touches that somehow explained everything that they needed to tell one another.

Even when they were trying to figure out what they were and how to talk about it—with the band, with reporters, with the label—he remembers sitting there with her in his arms, running circles in his mind and coming up with nothing. They were always just Luke and Julie, Julie and Luke, and he figured that everyone watching them would know exactly what that meant.

Their story wasn’t like other people’s, he thought, and he didn’t know how to tell anyone else how he felt about her. Everything that he felt for her went beyond his ability to explain. She helped him understand himself, she made him want to do silly and stupid things, she made him want to try harder, be better, do better.

She made him think about another kind of future.

  
They hadn’t even known how to tell Alex and Reggie.

Julie, being Julie, decided to do it at a band meeting. They were at the studio, between recording sets, fussing with their instruments, and she’d pulled over one of the equipment trunks to sit on, leaning forward with her elbows onto her knees and clapped her hands until they’d stopped what they were doing and turned towards her.

Reggie took a seat on the floor and guzzled down a bottle of water. “You look like my mom did when she was telling me that just because they were splitting up, it didn’t mean it was my fault,” Reggie said. “Are you about to quit for some kind of solo project? Because, if so, do it fast. Rip the band-aid off.”

“She’s not leaving the band,” he said.

Reggie made an exaggerated noise of relief. 

“Can we get back to work, please?” Alex said. “It’s not like we don’t have a ton to do.”

“This’ll be fast,” she said. “It’s important.”

He folded his arms over his chest, but he took a seat at his drum kit and gave the pedal a quick kick. “Okay,” he said. “On with it, boss.”

He hovered on the opposite side of the studio, busying himself with restringing one of the guitars. He mumbled something around the pick in his mouth as she snapped her fingers at him. 

“Guys,” Alex said. “You know we’re paying for studio time, right?”

“Chop chop, Luke,” she said.

He hopped across the room and crouched on the ground beside them, glancing at her. “Take it away,” he said.

“Luke and I have something we want to tell you,” Julie said.

“Oh, god,” Reggie groaned. “You’re both leaving the band.”

Julie raised her hands. “Nobody’s leaving the band,” she said. 

Reggie tilted his head. “Then what…”

Julie shook her head, taking her hair in her hands and drawing her shoulders back as she leveled at them. “I don’t know how to say this,” she said. “I didn’t prepare a…thing…Luke?”

He shrugged at her. “This was your idea,” he said. “It’s all you.”

“Thanks,” she deadpanned.

He grinned. “You’re doing great.”

“Okay,” Julie said. “It’s not a big deal. It’s not _not_ a big deal, but it’s not a big deal.”

“Then what the fuck is it?” Alex said.

She threw her arms open. “Luke and I just wanted to tell you guys that we’re, uh…”

“We’re together,” he finished, laying a string in its track.

“Oh,” Reggie said, perking up in his seat.

“For crying out loud,” Alex said. “Is that the whole—that was the whole meeting?”

Julie shrugged. “I wanted to…be honest,” she said. “I thought you should know.”

Alex leaned forward and gave the bass drum another kick. “Well, thank you for your honesty,” he said. “It was completely unnecessary.”

“What?” Julie said. “What, why?”

Alex scoffed, pointing between the two of them. “I know you think you guys are, like, masters of deception or whatever, but you’re really not.”

“Yeah,” Reggie said. 

“We tour with you,” Alex said. “We’ve _lived_ with you.”

“Yeah,” Reggie said, more slowly.

Luke shrugged at her. “See?” he said. “I told you they wouldn’t care.”

Julie furrowed her brow. “So that’s it? You’re fine with it? I didn’t have to worry?” 

“I mean,” Alex said, his voice pitching higher. 

“Of course you didn’t have to worry,” Reggie said. “It’s us, Jules. We’re family.”

“I still think we should set up some ground rules…” Alex continued.

“Ground rules,” Julie repeated.

“Yeah,” Alex said, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Like…quiet hours. Like respecting who your neighbors are.”

Luke shook his head, laughing, while Julie leaned her face in her hands and groaned. “You’re such an asshole,” he said.

“Like Luke learning to put some fucking music on.”

Julie giggled behind her hands as Luke launched himself at Alex, wrestling him down to the floor. 

“We’re happy for you,” Reggie said. “And even though Alex and I know you can take care of yourself, if you ever need anyone to beat up Luke…”

“It’s not going to be you, Reg,” howled Alex from the floor.

Reggie tapped his chest with his hand. “Me,” he mouthed at her.

Julie laughed, swiping her hair away from her forehead. “We’re paying for studio time, guys,” she said.

Reggie took another long sip from his water bottle. “Give ‘em five,” he said. “And then they’ll be over it.”

  
The first time he told her he loved her, it was by accident.

They had been locked in his studio, fighting more than they had been writing anything, going back and forth on the instruments, the melody, the rhythm, on whether or not it belonged on this album, on whether or not it belonged anywhere, on whether or not they still knew how to write songs anymore. It had been sixteen hours of nonstop work with no progress, and she had been singing a run that he hadn’t liked all day, hadn’t liked the first time she tried it, and he was twenty seconds away from snapping.

He switched out his guitars, the electric for the acoustic six-string, the old Martin he bought in Nashville. He sat on a stool, pick in his teeth, and did the Carter scratch through an opening riff.

“Not another country song,” she said.

“You liked country two weeks ago,” he said.

“I’m not going to get pigeonholed into doing Americana. That’s not what the sound is for this album.”

“We haven’t figured out what the sound is for this album, sweetheart,” he said, tightly.

“I know, asshole,” she replied. “But it’s not going to be the same as the last one.”

He strummed through another few lines, picking up the rhythm into a ballad style. “ _Oh, I’ll twine with my mingles and raven black hair…_ ”

“Luke,” she whined. “I mean it.”

“ _And the myrtles so bright with the emerald dew…_ ”

“You skipped a line.”

“I thought you weren’t listening.”

“How can I help listening when you’re right here and I can’t leave the room?” she said.

“You’re a woman of many talents.”

She slammed her hands down against the piano in a sharp, dissonant crash. “Can you focus, please?”

“How can I focus,” he said, strumming through his guitar, “when there’s a beautiful, smart woman in front of me, yelling at me to get my head in the game?” 

She rolled her eyes. “I swear to god, Luke…”

“Beautiful,” he repeated, louder over her vocal protests, “Intelligent, an incredible force of a woman…the one, the only Julie Molina…” 

She started playing through on the piano, trying to drown him out.

“A woman who laughs at her own jokes, who takes no bullshit, who can’t figure out how to transpose this section that we’re working on…”

“You think you’re cute.”

He played through the intro to _Wildwood Flower_ again. “A woman who can’t remember where she keeps her car keys, even though she leaves them in the same place every goddamn morning…”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not the man who can’t keep his own lyrics straight…”

“The most amazing, most talented woman in the world, who thought _Kind of Blue_ was a Joni Mitchell album…”

She balled up a piece of sheet paper and threw it at his head. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” she said. “I was tired!”

“A woman who still records all of her demos in our bathroom even though we have a studio in the fucking house,” he continued.

“You’re such a dick,” she giggled, rumbling through chords on the lower end of the piano. 

“Love of my life, fire of my loins, champion of the people,” he sang, rustling double-time through the last chords, “The one, the only…Julie Molina, everybody.”

She sprang onto her feet and charged towards him, shoving at his shoulder hard. “What did you say?”

“Violence is not the answer.”

“No, say it again,” she said. “What did you say?”

He blinked up at her. “Which part?”

“You better not be fucking joking around.”

“Before you beat me to death,” he said, “Let me put down this guitar that’s worth more than the insurance on this house.” He set the guitar against its stand, and set his hands on her hips, dragging her closer.

She tapped her fingers underneath his chin until his head was leaning back to look at her. “Are you fucking with me, Patterson?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

She leaned in close. “Luke,” she said, softer, quieter. “Be real.”

He pecked a soft kiss against her mouth. “Love of my life,” he said. And another. “Fire of my loins.”

Her hands cupped his face as she kissed him, deep and thorough, smiling so wide he could feel the outline of it against his lips.

“What happened to ‘we have a deadline with the label, Luke’?” he whispered, when she pulled away.

“I love you too,” she said, “Even though you never know when to shut the fuck up.”

He grinned, and she wrestled him down to the floor, pinning him on his back. “It’s what you like about me,” he said. “That I never know when to shut the fuck up.”

She climbed on top of him, hips pinning his down, laughing as she leaned down to kiss him. “You’re lucky I only like men I can push around.”

He tangled a hand in her hair and kissed the hollow of her throat. “Anytime, baby.”

It was only the days, weeks, afterward that they thought about the shape of the problem—what they were, how to tell the label, how to tell the boys, what it all meant. It always seemed so simple until it didn’t.

He remembers thinking that whatever name they might have come up with for it, none of it would fit how he felt about her, how large a role she played in his life.

“It isn’t going to be easy, you know,” she said.

He remembers laughing at the thought. “With you?” he said. “Nothing ever is.”

  
They have a full day of press the next morning, and he sits with his enormous cup of coffee at the long conference room table, and chugs half of it down, scalding his mouth in the process. He must look as exhausted as he feels because when Alex and Reggie come through the door, they each greet him with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“How long did you stay after we left?” Alex says.

Luke shrugs. “I lost track of time,” he says. “Late.”

“Yeah?” Alex says, voice rising. “Anything…interesting happen?”

Luke shoots him a look, and takes another gulp of his coffee. “What are you asking me?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Alex says. “Just seems like…the channels of communication are opening up again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke says. “We talked for a while and went for a walk. It wasn’t anything serious.”

“Mm,” Alex hums. “But then again, you look so serious.”

Luke wrinkles his nose, scoffing. “I always look like this.”

“Au contraire,” Alex says. 

“Shut up,” Luke says.

And then the first reporter and camera crew are through the door, hair perfectly in place, bright lights in hand. He fixes a smile on his face and prepares for a day of answering questions about things he doesn’t want to talk about.

The reporter is a lanky brunette in her forties, her hair sprayed into place so that it moves as a single mass whenever she shifts in her seat. “It’s great to see you all,” she says. “Sinclair Barone from Fox 47 in Michigan.” She lifts her phone out of her inner jacket pocket, and switches it on, setting it on the table. “So how are you all feeling about being inducted into the Hall of Fame?”

Luke turns to look at Reggie, who looks at Alex.

“Of course, it’s a great honor,” Alex says, glaring at the both of them.

And then they’re off to the races.

  
At least he only gets asked about her once every ten minutes.

Mostly by the pop culture rags than the actual newspapers. But he gets it—their story has been repeated often enough to become a legend in its own right, one that other people feel like they can claim. Everybody wants to believe in some greater love like it’s all a fairy tale, like their lives aren’t being figured out every second that they’re living it, like it’s another tv show spinning a will-they-or-won’t-they, Ross-and-Rachel nightmare.

Julie sits on the opposite end of the table, as collected and presentable as ever, not a hair out of place. She answers the questions that she can easily, shuts down the ones that she can’t, and never seems anything other than friendly. He’s still never met anyone who can do it like her.

Going on hour four of talking about himself, he’s beginning to imagine scenarios of murder and he only hopes that it doesn’t come across in his answers.

The reporter in front of them now, Grady Somebody from OK Britain or Hello Oakland or whatever, gestures towards him with a pen and says, “This question is for Luke—there’s obviously been a lot of chatter about this being your first outing as a band in years, especially with everything that’s gone on between yourself and Julie. How has it been coming back? Has there been any lingering awkwardness with you both since the break-up?”

Luke clears his throat and shifts forward in his seat towards the mic. “Well,” he stammers, “I’d say that we understand that people are very excited about getting to see us perform for the first time in years. And it’s been a journey—an uneven journey coming back and trying to figure out how to mesh my sound now with how I sounded—how I was playing—back then.”

“But has there been an impact from your relationship on the dynamics of the band?” Grady presses, like he’s at a G20 summit instead of a press conference for a vanity dedication at an awards ceremony.

“Well, I can’t speak for Jules,” he says, gesturing down the other end towards the table, “But I think that we’ve really taken the time to grow in those years, and we both appreciate what kind of an opportunity this is, not only for us, but for the fans. I think we’ve come to this, knowing that, uh, that we’re going to be revisiting some of what happened. And, you know, I wish Julie the best—always have—and we’re—we’ve always been professionals, especially where the Phantoms have been concerned, so.”

Grady scribbles something in his notepad and tips his head. “Great, thanks,” he chirps.

Down the end of the table, Julie’s glance touches on him briefly before she turns back towards the next reporter.

“Julie, any response? How has it been for you coming back to the band that made you famous?” the reporter asks. “Have you had any difficulty adjusting, especially given the split and all of the back-and-forth in the wake of that?”

Julie leans back in her chair and smiles, that smooth Hollywood crocodile smile. “I appreciate the question, Anna, thanks. Nice to see you again. Coming back has been a little strange, not without its sets of challenges, but, at the end of the day, the boys and I have nothing but love for one another, and we’ve loved having the chance to just hang out and play together like we used to.”

“And the rumors about the fighting?”

“I can’t address any rumors, and you know that,” Julie says. “I can’t speak for what someone might have misheard or overheard. All I can say is that it’s been a really rewarding experience so far.”

The reporters all scribble in their notebooks.

“This question is for all of you,” the next reporter calls. “Is there any chance at a reunion?”

They all look at one another.

Alex leans forward towards the mic and grins. “I expect this answer will make you all very happy,” he says. “But we’re all working on different things now, so probably not.”

A laugh rings around the room, and then the next reporter is standing.

  
One of the reporters pulls him aside after they finish up their session. Jamie, Luke thinks his name is, a beat reporter for one of the Australian newspapers. They’ve been friendly in the past, maybe had a drink once or twice, though Luke generally doesn’t try to have relationships with reporters in general. It’s too close to jump from that to having pieces of your mail stolen for something to write about.

“Hey, man,” Luke greets, walking up to him. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to give you a head’s up to get in front of something,” Jamie says.

“Yeah?” he says.

“There’s a picture floating around social media—unsourced, but definitely not by a pro—with you and Julie. It’s got to be from this week, and you look very…friendly, shall we say. There’s all the rumors buzzing around with her and Jonah, so do you have everything you want to let leak first?”

“On the record?” he says.

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “We’ll do an exclusive.”

He scrubs at his eyes with a weary groan. “You have the picture?”

Jamie pulls it up on his phone and it’s blurry, the shadow of their silhouettes outlined against the hazy glow of the moon. 

He squints at the photo. “This is it?”

“You want a comment?”

He coughs a laugh. “No,” he says. “No comment.”

To say he hasn’t had the easiest relationship with the press would be an understatement. 

There have been the hostile press conferences, the deliberate run-ins, the shots of him chasing them off of his property. But he’s never known how to balance doing the work that he loves with all of the intrusion that invites into his life. It’s impossible, he knows, but he wants it to stop at the water’s edge somehow, to know that his fans can hear as much of him in his music as they want and pretend that he doesn’t exist outside of that.

With her, it was never really possible.

With her, everything was part of a twenty-four hour news cycle, her being stalked at all hours by photographers waiting to catch her at a bad angle, to see her doing something that she shouldn’t be. He doesn’t even know how she kept it all together when they were at their height. The pressure of having to be seen, to be on, all the time nearly made him crazy, but she always managed it with a steady hand like if she was nice to them, they wouldn’t one day throw her under the bus for something small so that they could sell papers.

He knows he could have played it better. He’s been around long enough to know how the game works—there’s always an angle, and it’s the juiciest ones that get the most clicks.

It was worst after the break-up when he was drinking all the time, unable to hold himself back. Those were the days of the blackouts, the photos of him punching out the cameras, the reimbursements that he had to make that lost him a couple of endorsements and some airplay on family stations. 

He didn’t know what to do so he hid inside his house, going out only when necessary, hoping to get the pieces of himself back together enough so that none of the vultures outside could tell.

The worst of it was trying to pretend that everything was fine, no matter what he felt or what just happened.

The worst of it was having to answer for moments when he wasn’t looking, to tell the stories of things that were nobody’s business at all.

The worst are the ones that he can’t remember.

  
He doesn’t like to think about those days.

He doesn’t like to think about those stolen snapshots, the ones when he was too empty and angry to be out, the ones where he’s approaching her in some public place, her always looking cornered and sad, her always looking upset.

There are things he must have said to her, he knows, things that he can’t remember, things that he doesn’t remember, that he can only get from secondhand stories whose perspectives he can’t quite trust. He hates that he did that to her, that he felt so hurt that he felt like he had to hurt something back.

But there’s no taking it back.

There’s a photo that leaks of him after their break-up—it’s at an awards show, him in a tux and she in a very expensive looking dress. He’s looking rumpled, his hair sticking up in all directions, while she’s slouching into her dress, arms crossed over her chest, looking uncomfortable and upset.

Flynn’s beside her in an equally sparkling cocktail dress, her mouth open with a snarl, her finger jammed nearly into his face.

He doesn’t remember what happened, doesn’t even know if he can place the night that it is, but he wishes that he had anything besides the photo. Anything to tell him what might have happened. 

In the photo, he can see how glazed his eyes are, how unfocused, while Julie looks like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

In the photo, he can see how Flynn blocks her, her hand creating more distance. He knows—he _knew_ —Flynn, and he knows how easily she goes to bat for those she cares about. 

And even then, he’s smiling in the photo, his hand clenched tightly down by his side. 

Whatever happened, he thinks, it must have been some story.

  
(Not that the ones that he remembers are much better.

There’s another run-in with Flynn in those first few months after the band broke up, when Julie was just starting to tour again on her own. Another awards show maybe, something promotional and meaningless where he was slated to perform a track off of his album. 

He didn’t even know how she found him, only that she managed to single him out across an entire auditorium’s worth of celebrities and muscled him into the hallway, away from the cameras. It didn’t seem right that a girl her size could be so terrifying, but she glared at him the entire way, marching him out like he was being sent to detention.

He hadn’t been sober, but he hadn’t been drunk yet then either. Listing slightly on his feet, mouth a little sour, he could still be present enough to know what was going on.

“Flynn, what—”

“You listen to me,” she said.

He opened his mouth to protest, and shut it again. “Uh,” he said. “Okay.”

“Julie is my best friend, and I love her more than most of the people on this earth,” she said. “And even though she doesn’t listen to me when I give her advice, I respect her choices and I respect her boundaries.”

“Okay?” he said.

“But that doesn’t mean that I have to respect you,” she said, jabbing him in the shoulder with her finger to punctuate her point. “And after everything that I heard about, all the shit that you said, after everything that I cleaned up, you better be on your best behavior tonight, because I am not going to stand around and let you make a mess of her feelings, okay?”

He blinked at her. “What are you talking about? I didn’t say or do anything…”

“I’ve known you since before you were famous, Luke,” Flynn said. “I know how tall you _really_ are. If you try anything while I’m here, I am not afraid to take you out back and beat you up. And you know that I can do it.”

“Flynn, I didn’t do anything,” he protested.

“That’s right,” she said, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve. “And you better not unless you want to face the consequences. Do we understand each other?”

He reached for her shoulder as she tried to step past him and head back inside. “Hey,” he said. “How is she? Is she okay?”

Flynn glanced up at him with a disbelieving look. “That’s not your concern anymore, is it?” she said, breezing past him.

“Flynn,” he called, snatching at her hand. “Wait!”

She turned slowly towards him, shaking her hand free. “Don’t touch me like that again if you value your fingers,” she said. “I don’t care who the fuck is around…”

“Flynn,” he pleaded. “Please. How is she? I’m just—”

“You’re what?” Flynn said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re worried? You treated her like shit and now, what, you’re concerned? You want to know how she’s doing? It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Is she okay?”

She stared at him, her mouth working.

“I just…” he began. “I’m not asking for—I know she doesn’t owe me anything. I know you don’t owe me anything.”

“You’re damn right.”

“But I—I still think about her,” he said. “I just want to know if she’s okay. I haven’t—we don’t talk.”

She sighed, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “Yeah,” she said, after a beat. “Yeah. She’s fine. She’s going to be fine. Especially now that she doesn’t have to put up with your bullshit anymore. Okay? Good?”

She stomped off before he could answer, and all he could do was follow her back inside.)

At sound check, they rehearse the updated version of the new song.

Julie’s got the receiver in her ear, half-humming to herself, half-playing on the piano, while the sound guy at the rear of the auditorium waves his hands at them to get their feedback. Luke strums through a chord, listening to how loud it comes out of the amp. 

“Can I get a little more on that guitar, please?” he calls, and the audio guy lifts his hand.

Alex rolls into the intro on _Edge of Great_ , and then they’re just jamming, playing along, goofing around, and trying to hear how bad the acoustics are in the ballroom.

Julie jumps up to her feet, singing into the mic, cueing the sound mixer with her free hand to adjust her levels while they start playing behind her piano.

As she leads into the second verse, she pulls the mic free and twirls at the edge of the stage. He steps towards her, playing through a lick harmonizing beneath her melody, and she dances in place, grinning at him as he approaches.

The noise of the drums softens away as he steps towards her. She grins, extending the mic out towards his mouth.

He's close enough to smell her perfume, and he picks through a riff as he mumbles a line into the mic. 

She leans her weight against him as he starts playing, laughing as he leads into an extended solo.

“You’re not going to do that when we’re playing, are you?” Reggie says.

He laughs, and crashes through a final power chord as Julie howls a big belt into the microphone.

The audio guy in the back lifts his arm, and she looks to him with a confused look. “Good or bad?” she asks.

He shrugs, glancing down at her, beaming up at him. “Good,” he says.

  
He doesn’t like to let himself think about it, but he knows that, realistically, they don’t have much time left. It’s easy, in this business, in their business, to think that they can spend a week anywhere and rediscover the things that they once had. But he knows—he remembers—what it’s like on the road, when the nights are quiet and lonely and cold, when someone is thousands of miles away and all you have to hold onto is their voice through the phone, or their blurry face on the screen, and the promise of one day getting to hold one another in person again.

He doesn’t expect her to make any promises.

He’s not sure he would believe any of them, even if she did.

Looking at her now, all he can think is how beautiful she looks under the stage lights, her hair big and messy, a pencil in her mouth as she tries to figure something out. And he knows how it’s going to go: they’re going to finish sound check, make their speeches, play their songs, and head their separate ways. If it were a few years ago, maybe he would still believe that they had a shot to fix something, that he would have repented enough to deserve getting her back in his life again, but he’s disappointed himself enough times to know that sometimes things don’t work out the way that he wants and not for lack of trying.

Sometimes two people are just headed down separate tracks in life, and there’s no time to pull them back to correct course.

And, if he thinks about it, he wouldn’t want to be that person—the person to derail Julie Molina from being Julie Molina, the biggest star in the world, the one who got in the way of her making her music—but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel like he’s breaking his own heart all over again.

And, if he’s being honest, maybe sometimes he lets himself indulge in the fantasy, in the dream of a world where they might be able to work it out, where they’ll keep in touch and fall back into being Julie and Luke, the way that they used to be for years. In his fantasy, maybe they talk while they’re both on the road, wherever they are, and her laugh is fuzzy with distance but crackling with how close her mouth is to the receiver, and it makes his whole body break out into goosebumps with anticipation. In his fantasy, when they run into each other, it’s always with the knowledge that they’ll be able to see each other again soon, that, whatever happened, there’s nothing left to talk about and nothing left to forgive, that they’re able to move forward into the future and know that they’re there for each other, no matter what.

But he thinks maybe it’s a blessing that he’s been able to have a second chance to fix things, that he could even have this time, whatever it ends up being.

She flings a pencil in his direction, and it clatters against his knee to the floor of the stage. “Wake up, bro,” she says. “We’ve been talking to you for like ten minutes.”

He kicks the pencil back towards her.

“I know you hate sound check, but damn,” she says.

He pulls the picks free from the stand and throws them in her direction, one after the other, while she covers her head with her arms and shrieks, giggling.

“That’s being professional,” Alex says.

The sound guy whistles to them from the rear of the ballroom. “Try it again?” he shouts.

Julie groans, hauling herself up to her feet and dragging herself back to the piano bench.

“You love it,” he says.

She flips him off with a roll of the eyes. Alex and Reggie crack up, hooting and hollering at him, while they try to set up to go back into the song.

As they start into the song again, she turns to him as she starts singing. “Running from the past,” she croons, her eyes glancing between the keys and him, “Tripping on the now, what is lost can be found, it’s obvious…”

He mouths the lyrics along with her, smiling wide as he toes towards the center of the stage where she’s playing. He shifts closer, watching as she stands from the keyboard, airily singing the next few lines.

Her head nods towards him, counting down the beats until his entrance.

When he cuts in with the chords, she jumps in time with him, her hair bouncing as she laughs. When she’s this happy, he can’t pay attention to anything else, can barely remember what he’s meant to be doing on guitar. 

All he can think is that he always wants to see her like that, light from the inside out.

All he can think is that he’s never felt this way about anything, except maybe music. He loves playing alongside her, loves seeing her come to life on stage, loves the energy when she looks at him and lets him run with whatever idea is in his head.

And no matter what happens, he knows that a part of him is always going to love her, just like he knows that losing her again is going to hurt like hell.

But at least, for now, he has this.

For now, at least, he still has her.

For as long as it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Carter scratch is a method of finger-picking guitar popularized by the Carter family. _Wildwood Flower_ is also one of their songs.
> 
>  _Blue_ is a Joni Mitchell album; _Kind of Blue_ is Miles Davis.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. Fic rating change to M for some explicit content this chapter.

He’s never liked to share the stage. Either he owns it, standing center, rocking out and playing to the front line of girls screaming his name, or he hangs off to the side, happy to play guitarist, losing himself in the runs without worrying about what he’s doing. And for all that they’ve fought about the performances and the name and direction of the band, she’s always known his dirty little secret—he’s guitarist first, frontman second.

None of them are the same people on stage as they are off, but he’s never liked to play with his stage persona the way the rest of them have. He’s always just wanted to stay Luke. It makes him nervous, she thinks, to plan it all out, to think about being anything other than absolutely honest, absolutely himself. But she appreciates the stage for all the space it gives her to be someone different—to dress in sparkling clothes and outfits, to strut right up front to people and act like she has the chance to tell them exactly what she thinks and how she feels without apology. In the spotlight, she’s the one who gets to call the shots, and everyone else is along for the ride. It’s a kind of superpower.

And maybe it's got something to do with her mom. There are videos of the two of them together—her as a baby, a two-year-old, a little kid toddling around the piano, mouth toothsome and grinning, while her mom plays. The music is one thing, she knows, something that connects them no matter how long it’s been, but it’s the stage that makes her feel it. The ground shaking beneath her feet, the roar of the music zipping through her body, the sound of thousands of voices singing along, undulating in a frenzy all its own. And none of them are in the same moment—they’re all caught up in their memories even while they’re standing there screaming along with her. She loves the magic of that moment when the song she’s singing isn’t hers anymore, isn’t theirs anymore, but belongs to the crowd and the night, wherever they are, however long they’re together. 

Luke’s always liked to hide behind his guitar, standing at his mic and playing through his part, or dancing along with the beat and nodding out at the crowd. For him, the music comes first and everything else comes second. _It’s the music that matters, Julie, the rest of it is just bullshit._

Yeah, she knows. 

It’s the bullshit that signed their checks, that paid their royalties, that made sure they had enough to get by to keep making music. It’s the bullshit that’s kept them in the public eye long enough for anyone to care about what they’re doing ten years later, that’s kept her family in their homes, and made sure that none of them are in danger of starving. But she knows how he gets—he plays on stage to hear the crowd singing along with him, to see them swaying in time to words that he wrote, melodies that he created. He plays on stage to see how he’s heard.

Except whenever they’re playing together.

Except when it comes to her.

It isn’t like they’re blind to how they look when they’re on stage. Even before they got together. But the truth is they’ve never known how to talk about it because they’ve never had an explanation. Not really. They've only ever had excuses.

It’s because they’re good friends. It’s because they trust each other. It’s because they connected over music. It’s because something happens on stage. It’s because they love each other. It’s because it’s there. It’s just because. She used to think that she knew why—that it was love before either of them knew to call it love, that it was something they didn’t know how to let themselves want, that it was their space for everything they couldn’t talk about. But even now, even after everything, it hasn’t gone away. It’s still there—that tension, that thickness—as if they’d never acted on their feelings, as if they hadn’t stopped speaking, as if all of that time passed never happened.

It's like a switch flipping.

When he goes from being the Luke he is on stage, a little too brash, a little too loud, playing at an openness with the crowd that’s always slightly guarded, to being the Luke that he is—was—with her in private. It’s like hitting the curve in the tilt-a-whirl, her stomach sliding up into her throat and the weight of the air changing, her skin warming with awareness. She knows when his eyes find hers, when he’s tuning the rest of the world out as if it’s just the two of them on stage, playing for each other. And then there are those other moments she doesn’t like to think about, the ones when he looks at her when he doesn’t think that she’s paying attention. Those moments when he levels her with a look of pure desperation, pure hunger, and she pretends like everything is normal, like the world hasn’t tilted the opposite way on its axis and sent all of her blood rushing.

The label likes to call it chemistry, but it’s a kind of tether almost, the way that she knows where he is even without looking, the way she can tell how he’s looking at her even when she’s looking out at the crowd. And ignoring him never works for long—something about him always makes her want to turn and look back, to catch him in a quick glance, to shift closer. The truth is that it’s never planned or choreographed, that it’s because he doesn’t know how to look away when she’s standing center stage and she’s never been able to tune him out. 

And when it got confusing, when it got messy and loud and brittle, she didn’t know what to do with that feeling then either, that steady and unchanging current that drew them together whenever they were playing. For a while, she held onto her anger, sharp and sour, to remind herself that none of it was real, that no matter how he looked at her, he never meant it. But it didn’t keep her stomach from flipping whenever she felt it, and it didn’t stop him from checking her out whenever she lingered on the opposite side of the stage. It didn’t stop the two of them from being them—only from knowing what to do with it.

If she’s being honest with herself, maybe she blamed him for it too back then, that feeling that wouldn’t leave her alone, that energy that they always seemed to drag with them on stage, no matter what. If she’s being honest with herself, the anger was easier to understand and manage than the thickness of that feeling, the way it wrapped around her until it was all she could see and feel, the way it felt familiar and soothing and suffocating all at the same time. She didn’t know how to play on stage with him again because nothing about playing on stage with him felt different except for the thoughts running through her head, except for how hard she was trying to keep things the way that she wanted them instead of how they usually were. What was different was her, was him, but never them—the idea of them, anyway, that lived and died under the lights in a set.

It hasn’t gotten any easier now to pick apart what’s real from what’s for show. It hasn’t gotten any easier to sort out what they’re feeling now from what they were feeling then, what’s happening from what’s history. Because she knows that whenever they step on stage together, what happens is it wakes up again—all of the ways that she knows him too well, all of the ways that she’s pretended that she hasn’t thought about him, all of the lies they’ve told themselves about moving on, all of the baggage that they’ve pretended to leave behind. What happens is they see each other again—now, and for the first time in a long time—and remember what it feels like to be seen. It’s always been like that between the two of them—open, unsparing, honest—and on stage, it opens up again, no matter what they want. No matter what they feel. 

If she’s being honest with herself, part of her thinks they’ve been kidding themselves this whole time. 

And maybe there’s never been any difference at all; maybe the only difference is how willing they are to let it show.

Alex insists on double-checking his levels, so the tech lets them run through one more.

Luke rolls his eyes, but they all take their places and wait for him to set their lead. Alex leads in with an extended drum solo, giving a few experimental kicks on the pedal to test it, before she can figure out what it is he’s playing.

Luke’s head is bowed over his guitar, his fingers picking quick over the strings to match Alex’s tempo. She watches him play for a second, the quick sixteenths sharp and clean as his hand flutters over the fingerboard. When he steps towards the mic, he leans in close, his lips nearly brushing against it.

She busies herself with listening to the mix coming through the earpiece, trying to hear if everything is balanced, but it hits her right on time. He starts singing, and she can feel the pull of his eyes again, the weight of his gaze as it locks on her. His voice is warm as it comes through the speakers, close and low as it rumbles out over the drum line, and she stands and reaches for the mic, humming through her part of the harmony.

“Coming off of the edge of patience,” he sings. “Making a break for the ends of town…”

When she looks over, he’s shifting closer to her, the wire of his guitar dragging along the stage as he moves. And then it’s that gravity again, that prickle of goosebumps along the back of her neck, as he inches closer.

She vocalizes against the mic, a smooth trailing run downward. Her hand flutters against the stand as she glances over at him, his smile wide, eyes bright and unguarded as he studies her. It feels like Amsterdam, like hovering on the edge of a cliff that she hadn’t realized she was perched on and seeing just how far down it goes.

His head nods at her to approach, and she gives a shaky laugh, turning back towards the empty auditorium and the sight of the audio tech, waving his hand at Alex to check the sound.

But he’s still there, his attention prickling against her skin, his voice low as it hums into the mic.

Alex rattles his drumsticks against the hoop of his drum, standing and waving his arms, and Reggie slides into a discordant rumble of notes. “I think it’s good,” he shouts. 

The tech gives a thumb’s up.

“Come on, guys,” Luke says, playing through the next riff. “Let’s finish it out.”

She tilts her head and studies him. “Since when did you care about sound check?” she says.

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand against his chest in faux heartbreak, “People can change.”

“Believe it when I see it,” Reggie says.

“You’re just annoyed because you have to sit this one out, Reginald,” Luke says.

Reggie mimics a crying face at him, and Julie giggles as the guitar whines as he plays a power chord.

She glances up at him, shaking her head. “People, maybe,” she says. “But you? Nah.”

“Hey,” he says, eyes connecting with hers. “You’d be surprised.”

Reggie takes a seat against the stage, watching them. 

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe not.”

He snorts a laugh, setting a pick between his teeth as he changes guitars. “You just like to believe the worst in me,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes. “You get exactly what you deserve.”

“Maybe,” he says.

But when she glances at him, he’s already looking away.

After they finish sound check, he walks with her towards the direction of her hotel, Alex and Reggie behind them. He walks alongside her, his hand near enough to brush the back of hers, and she feels his closeness like a healing scar, sensitive and raw.

“It was nice getting to play together again,” Reggie says, and they all murmur in agreement. “Makes me wonder why we gave it all up in the first place.”

“Um,” Alex says, marching up behind them and leaning an arm against her shoulder and another against Luke’s, “Because we were dealing with people who didn’t know how to play nice together anymore?”

Luke cranes his neck to look at him, laughing. “You can’t blame it all on us, man.”

“I absolutely can,” Alex says. “Luke, you broke up the band. You Yoko’d us. See? Easy.”

Julie scoffs. “Yoko did not break up the band.”

“You’re going to get her started again,” Luke says.

“Excuse me,” Julie says. “But Yoko—”

“We were not the only problem,” Luke says. “And if I remember correctly, I was the one fighting to keep the band together at the end.”

“You were the _biggest_ problem,” Alex crows. “And you were trying to keep the band together to prove that you didn’t Yoko the band when you Yoko’d the band.”

“Yoko is not a verb,” Julie says. “And she didn’t break them up.”

“Stop trying to turn my good thing into a bad thing,” Reggie says. “It was nice to play together again.”

She reaches to pull Alex’s arm around her shoulders and leans her weight against him. “Reggie’s right,” she says. “He’s being sweet, and you’re being a nightmare.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Well,” he says, affecting a voice, “If international superstar Julie Molina says so, I guess it must be true.”

She giggles, and shoves her weight against him. “You’re such an asshole.”

Luke punches him in the arm. “And I seem to remember a certain someone being the one to pull the trigger, so if anyone’s missing a leg to stand on…”

“Christ,” Alex says. “All of that time alone and your English still sucks.”

Luke laughs. “Fuck you, man.”

“Mmm,” Alex says. “Don’t you wish.”

They go to get food afterwards, and it’s almost exactly as she remembers it. A booth in the back, the boys sprawling and slouching in their seats, kicking their feet up. They all get cheeseburgers and milkshakes and fries, the boys talking shit while she scrolls through her phone, looking at nothing. He sits across from her, laughing at something else Alex has said, while she makes her way through her fries, licking the grease and salt off of the tips of her fingers. 

“We should do this more often,” Reggie says.

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Right. Let’s just call the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and ask them to invite us back next year.”

“No, I mean, this,” Reggie says. “The four of us.”

Alex raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything else.

She wipes her hands against her napkin and clicks off her phone, and all of a sudden, they’re back in the last conversation they had in Tokyo. A little older, a little more worse for wear, and feeling their old skins crack around who they are now. There’s things they all regret, she thinks. Mistakes and words they all wish they could have taken back.

“It doesn’t have to be like it was,” Reggie says, softer. “You know, it’s not like we’re together every second, we’re not working together anymore. I’m just saying.”

And when she thinks about it—when they all think about it—maybe there was something to what they lost in each other that was worth more than what they found after. Some nights, maybe she does miss having three of her best friends on the road with her, talking about nothing, knowing the best ways to lift her up after a long day. Some nights, maybe she’s tired of being surrounded by people who see her as a boss and a star and the person who gets their checks signed at the end of the day.

She misses having partners in this, she thinks. Solo really does mean solo.

“Sure,” Alex says, stretching the word out. “Maybe when we’re not touring. Or recording, or writing, or…”

“Reggie’s right,” Luke says. “The Phantoms had something special.”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “ _Had_ being the operative word there, boss.”

Luke steals a glance at her and nudges his fries closer to the edge of her tray. “Hey,” he says. “Never say never, right?” 

She takes a fry from the basket and bites into it. 

“Right,” Reggie says.

Under the table, her foot bumps against his, a sudden and casual jolt. “It might be nice,” she says.

Alex whistles, drumming his hands against the table. “Well,” he says. “Well, well, well.”

She glares at him. “What?”

He lifts his hand in a gesture of peace. “Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t say anything.”

She aims a fry in his direction. “But you were thinking it.”

“I’m just…thinking,” Alex says.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’d be nice to get away from all of this…bullshit…and—I don’t know…”

“Remember what it was like to be friends again?” Luke says.

She pokes at the paper tray liner and crinkles an edge. “Can’t live in the past,” she says.

“No,” Luke says. “We wouldn’t be. Things are different now.”

And when she looks up at him, she can hear it—the iron in his voice, the jittery excitement when he’s heard something that she hasn’t yet, when there’s something that he needs to convince her of, when all he wants is for her to understand where he’s at and get her to be on the same page. 

It’s been a long time since she’s heard it, and it’s surprising how comforting and familiar it is, how bittersweet.

She reaches for another fry, and they all turn back to their trays, the air quiet and full of possibility.

Of course the photo goes live that night.

It’s blurry and washed out, brightened until all the pixels seem distorted. But still, there’s the shape of her in silhouette and another shadow, and the two of them hugging down by the water.

When it comes, she orders a bottle of wine to her room and downs a glass immediately. It doesn’t take long for the calls to start trickling in—her dad, Carlos, Flynn, Amy, reporters, reporters, reporters—until it seems like her phone is continuously on for an hour.

She knows it doesn’t mean anything, knows that it’s easier than ever for dying papers to game clicks by inventing rumors out of nothing and she’s never had problems navigating it before.

Flynn asks her what’s going on. Flynn asks her if she knows what she’s doing.

Amy asks her what she’s thinking. Amy asks her if it’s real, and how she wants to handle it.

The reporters, one after the other, ask her if she’d like to make any comment, if she’d be willing to appear on this slot or that one, if she has anything to say to the rumors.

And the answer is that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know if it’s real, she doesn’t know if they’re kidding themselves about trying to be friends, she doesn’t even remember what it’s like to be friends with him without all of the baggage getting in the way. All she knows is that it’s become more and more difficult to remember anything that wasn’t the bad times, that he walked out once because he didn’t want to deal with all of the trappings of the business—of the attention, of being followed, of being handled—and all she did was drag it back in. 

She wonders if he’s seen the news.

She never blamed him for walking away from that part of the business, for hiding out in his cabin in the middle of the woods somewhere and keeping his head down. She doesn’t blame him for hating it. She blames him for the cowardice, for the fear of losing himself—losing them—in its shadow and throwing it all away instead.

Jonah texts her, _hey_.

Jonah texts her, _i saw the news_. 

Jonah texts her, _are u ok?_

She doesn’t text him back.

Luke’s never believed in hiding. 

It’s where they’re different, she thinks. When her mom died, she wanted nothing more than to sink inside herself and blot out the world until she couldn’t see anything else outside of her own grief. Part of what she loves about being on stage is how she can disappear into a persona that looks and sounds exactly like her—but a version of her that’s perfect, indestructible, absolute. When everyone’s looking at the lights, it’s easy to feel like they’re not looking at her—they’re looking at the flash and the sparkle.

She knows that he tried. For her, he tried.

She knows that she’s lucky he stuck it out as long as he did.

She knows that he blamed her for a lot of it, even if he never said it. And, if she’s being honest, those days when they were on the cover of every tabloid magazine in America, when she felt like she couldn’t go anywhere without a dozen cameras in her face or a handful of men falling down in front of her, aiming to catch her at the most unflattering angle, she was barely holding it together herself, too aware of how much the world was slipping through her fingers.

She remembers the nights they spent holed up in the hotel suites, the two of them cooped up and claustrophobic and pretending that they were fine. She knew, even then, how much he was already itching against it—not being able to go anywhere or do anything, not being able to walk through the streets, not having the freedom to just be himself—but he stayed with her.

But the longer it went, the harder it was for him to keep his promises. The harder it was for him to keep his temper. The longer it went, the more brazen the cameramen got, trying to stage arguments, trying to provoke them into saying something or doing something that would be worth catching on camera. There’s footage of it too—his hands clenched down by his sides, the casual kicks and bumps their security would give the cameramen as they herded them to the car or the plane or wherever they were going. And always, it would feel like sinking back into that black where nobody could catch them.

Dealing with it now, older, wiser,she’s come to accept a lot of things that she doesn’t have the power to change. She’s come to have her security do the talking for her, to set her boundaries and assert them when she can. But back then, they were figuring it out as they were living it and all she wanted to do was find some kind of peace away from the lights and the screaming fans and the constant cameras. And the only place she could find it was in those pockets of air—sitting and holding his hand in the car, relaxing in their hotel suite, those snatches of early morning when nobody had anything to ask of them and they could just lay in bed together and be Julie and Luke.

But it wouldn’t last forever. 

It couldn’t.

No matter how much he denied it, he started to resent her for it—the attention that she—frontwoman and star—brought them, the attention that she attracted as soon as she went on stage. She knows that what he wanted was a clear boundary between the music and the performance, that what he wanted was to write and release his music and leave it all there on stage where it wouldn’t follow him anywhere else. 

_this isn’t music, jules_ , he told her once. _this is a circus._

But she never knew how to tell him that this was what he signed up for, that you couldn’t have one without the other because that was how the business ran. She didn’t know how to tell him that this was the price of being successful, that your life and your story didn’t belong to you anymore, that other people—total strangers—took it and ran with it until they built you into a story they knew and loved, and that meant strange men chasing them down dark alleys at night and grown men rooting through their garbage bags and girls screaming for him to marry her, or leave her and marry them instead. She didn’t know how to tell him that there was a difference between accepting it as a consequence of the life they wanted and accepting it as a part of life.

So she tried to tell him what she believed—that she believed in them, that she believed in the power of their relationship, their work to see them through anything, that they could write their way out of whatever they wanted. She tried to convince him that as long as they were in it together, they could make it through. And all they had to do was pull the veil a little closer around themselves, to trick everyone into taking one kind of story for the truth when they had something else floating up their sleeves.

She remembers asking him to hold on. 

She remembers those long nights, watching him pace restless in their hotel room. She remembers holding him and hoping to quiet those wild parts of him, already desperate for a chance to break out of his cage and go back to his own trails. She remembers promising him that it wouldn’t be long, or, at least, not forever, that sooner or later everyone lost interest. She remembers imagining them together at the end of it, looking back, maybe married, maybe not, maybe with a house and kids, maybe not, but always together, laughing at each other and keeping themselves sane even after everything else died down.

Maybe it wasn’t ever possible, and maybe she knew that then.

But she wanted to believe.

She wanted to believe in a future where they could beat the odds, where they could make it out without losing some part of themselves. She wanted to believe that they could take on the world and win, that they could walk away from the fight without falling apart.

She wanted to believe that they could pull it off.

But Luke has never tried to solve a problem without charging through it head-first. 

And maybe that’s better than how she tried to manage it—by not managing it, by making sure that she was always the model of behavior that kept her safe, by playing a game against time to see when she might snap—but she’s never expected anything less, especially when she knows that she’s almost always going to be the target of their stories and their cameras, when they’re waiting for her to lash out and say something that she can find printed and tweeted throughout the world two hours after she says it.

If she thinks about it, and she doesn’t like to think about it, he wouldn’t have fought so hard to solve it if it wasn’t for her. But he loved her and he wanted to do what he thought was the right thing, and all he did was antagonize them into coming after both of them.

She still remembers how it was at the end—the cameramen screaming out rumors (at best) and insults (at worst) at them while they were walking, baseball caps pulled down to try to shield them from the glare of the flashbulbs. She remembers Luke getting into the face of one of the cameramen once, the camera going off in his face the entire time, while she tried to pull him back, to calm him down.

 _This is bullshit_ , he shouted at her once, after, hurling his empty plastic bottle across the room. _Jesus, they can’t leave us alone for a fucking second._

She never knew what to do with his anger, with the space it occupied, so she waited until it settled and he quieted back down. _But what are you going to do?_

 _You can’t live like this, Jules_ , he said. _I can’t fucking live like this, and neither can you._

And the truth was that maybe he couldn’t, but she could.

It came to a head in New York after a late-night recording session in a tiny studio downtown. The cameramen staked out across the street, swarming on them as soon as they headed out the door. What she remembers is that it was a long night, a long session, that they’d been fighting over the mix with the producer for hours. What she remembers is his hand in hers, their bodies closing in tightly as they walked down the block.

“Luke, Luke, Luke,” they shouted, the lights flashing as they tried to keep moving. “Anything to say about the photos with Brooke?”

Brooke had been an actress working to cut her first debut album, something slick and plastic with a grunge sound. Luke produced one of the tracks, and there had been photos that came out of the two of them walking out of the studio together, leaning a little close, talking a little close. The tabloids leapt to their first and only conclusion—that he had been seeing her on the side while things had been running rocky between the two of them, that he had decided to cut and run while everything with the Phantoms was caught up in band drama and infighting.

Luke pulled her harder into him as they kept walking. She remembers smelling the leather of his jacket, the way she bounced on her toes trying to keep up with his stride.

“Julie, Julie,” the photographers called, chasing after them. “Julie, what do you think about all of the rumors that he’s been seeing someone else? Do you think he’s cheating?” 

“Fuck off,” Luke growled, his shoulder colliding into the photographer as they broke through and kept walking.

“Julie,” they cried, chasing after them. “Julie, Brooke says that he spent the night—”

Luke stopped and turned to face the heckling photographer as cameras around them started going off in quick succession. “Luke,” she said, pulling at the cuff of his jacket.

His jaw tightened. 

“Luke, let’s just go.”

“Don’t start spreading that bullshit,” Luke said. “Just leave us alone, okay? Can you do that?”

She doesn’t remember what started it. What she remembers is thinking that all she wanted was to get away from all of them—from the cameras, from the questions, from Luke. She didn’t want to think about Brooke, or what she or they did or didn't do. She wanted to sink into a hot bath and talk to Flynn and dissolve away from the world for a few days. Anywhere where she could pretend that she was still in control of any part of her life.

She remembers looking down at the sidewalk, pushing through the circling crowd of cameramen with her shoulder. She remembers them angling their cameras at her from underneath to catch her anyway, the bulbs close enough to blind her as she kept moving. The questions came faster than she could hear them: “Is the band still fighting? Are you thinking of splitting up? Do you believe him? Are you staying together? Do you still love him?”

A camera pushed in close to her face, firing off a few shots. Stumbling backward, she blinked to clear her vision as another reached to nudge the cap away from her face.

“Hey,” Luke shouted, pulling her to cross on the other side of him, “Don’t fucking touch her.”

The photographer scoffed, running backward to center her more closely in the shot. “Don’t cry over him, sweetheart,” he cooed, “It’s not worth it.”

Luke reached for his camera and hurled it against the ground. “Stop talking to her like you know her and leave her the fuck alone,” he said.

“That was a ten thousand dollar camera, asshole,” the photographer said.

She remembers him leaning his head against hers, asking if she was okay, as they rounded the corner and headed towards their car. She remembers thinking that she didn’t know how she was feeling at all, that her hands were shaking hard enough that she could barely open her car door, that all she wanted was to disappear.

Luke slammed his hands against the steering wheel as soon as he climbed inside, grunting with frustration.

“Stop it,” she said. “Can you stop it?”

“Are you serious?” he said.

“They’re going to sue you for the cost of the camera.”

He scoffed. “So fucking let them, what do I care?” he said. “What the fuck is the point of all of this if they can just say what they want, do what they want, and treat us like this? Fuck! Who can live like this, Jules? Fucking who?”

“Please,” she said.

“What?”

“Please just…stop,” she said, voice cracking. “Give me a fucking minute.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening. “Jules. You okay?”

And if she’s being honest, she doesn’t know what tipped it over.

She cried while he watched her, cried while he tried to squeeze her arm and convince her that they could still go back, that they could find whatever it was that they had lost on the way. 

She cried until she couldn’t anymore, and he set the keys in the ignition and started to drive.

And none of them had anything else to say.

Jonah’s always been impenetrable where that’s been concerned. He’s a wall of a man—broad-shouldered with a wide smile full of even, white teeth—but it’s more than that. He’s the only person she’s met whose run-ins with the cameras are worse than hers, and she’s never once heard him complain about it.

She doesn’t know how he does it, but he’s always been able to manage them. He’s been working in Hollywood since he was in high school, and maybe that has something to do with it, but she’s been flailing around in this business since she was about the same age and she still doesn’t know what she’s doing or whether she’s managing to convince anybody that she’s doing it well.

But whenever they’re out together, he makes sure to smile for the cameras, to wrap his arm around her and pull her in tighter, until she feels like nothing can break through, that he can hold them all off until they can get to wherever they’re going.

She wants to tell him that she thinks she owes him an apology, that she’s sorry for letting her guard down enough to make a mistake like this. She wants to tell him that she’s never been good about thinking six steps ahead, that all she’s good at is keeping her walls up enough to make sure that everything she cares about stays safe.

She wants to tell him that, for the last year, he’s felt like one of the only friends she has left who understands what she’s going through, and that she didn’t mean to mess it all up.

When the knock comes at her hotel door just after two in the morning, she expects Amy or the hotel staff or one of her security guys trying to check on something because they got a weird tweet or text or package, or because she’s left her key card in the door again. But when she cracks open the door, her hair still in its scarf, her robe loose around her waist, it isn’t Amy or the security guys or the hotel. 

It’s Luke in his old jean jacket, running a hand through his hair, bouncing on his toes in front of the gap.

“Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”

She glances around him out into the hallway. “Yeah,” she says, unlatching the lock and pulling open the door. “Come in.”

“Nobody saw me,” he says, following her inside. “Don’t worry.”

There’s a haziness to the middle of the night that makes everything seem bigger and louder than it really is, but she closes the door behind him and locks it again while he shuffles into the center of the room, looking for a place to sit. The covers are still turned down on her bed, the sheets rumpled from her sleeping. 

“Sorry,” he says, scuffing his shoe against the carpet. “I should have texted first.”

“No, that’s okay,” she says, undoing her scarf and laying it aside. She scrubs a hand through her hair. “It sounds important. I wouldn’t have heard the text come in anyway.”

“Sorry,” he says, again, and she feels something tighten in her stomach. He’s only like this when there’s something he wants to talk about that he doesn’t know how to start, she knows, and his nerves are making her nervous. 

“Is everything okay?” she says.

He takes a deep breath and rifles his hand through his hair again. She’s always hated seeing him nervous, when he moves too fast for his own body, when every part of him makes her feel like she should be trying to match his pace. “No,” he says, after a moment.

“Look,” she says. “I’m sorry. I know this is exactly what you didn’t want, and I’m trying to fix it.”

His eyebrows wrinkle together. “What are you talking about?” 

“The picture,” she says. “The publicity. The paparazzi. I don’t know where they got it, but Amy’s on it.”

He bites his lip and nods at her to continue.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says. “Neither of us were thinking.”

“Are you in trouble?” he says. “With…”

She shakes her head. “It’s a blurry picture,” she says. “Getting in front of it is the most important part. Though I’m sure they’re going to stake out in front of your house for a while. Try to dig something up that isn’t there.”

“Yeah,” he says. 

She takes a seat on the foot of the bed and shrugs. “Okay, so?” she says. “I know you didn’t want to get back into it like this—with your low profile and whatever—but the Hall of Fame thing is almost over, and it’ll die down after that. As soon as they see you go back to your studio, there won’t be anything to write about. We’re going to deal with it. It just might take a while.”

“Julie,” he says, sharply.

“What?” she says. It’s late and she’s too tired to steel herself for whatever onslaught of accusations is coming. 

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Okay,” she says. “You said it was an emergency.”

“I said I needed to talk to you.”

She nods. “So talk.”

He chuckles, a low, frustrated noise. “Right,” he says. 

She bites the inside of her cheek, flexing her hands against the comforter. She’s always hated waiting, but she knows how he is when he gets like this. He’s ready to talk at his time and never any sooner, no matter how much she stresses over it. But she’s never liked to deal with it: the lead-up, the waiting, the anticipation of something worse. 

He’s working his way up to it, pacing back and forth in front of her, mumbling to himself.

Like it isn’t after two in the morning.

Like they aren’t exhausted and staring down a huge performance tomorrow.

“Luke,” she says.

He moves carefully, his body tensed and primed to react like a corralled animal. Hotel rooms have never been easy places for him, she remembers that. And he’s never much liked feeling trapped—she remembers that too.

“What is it? You can tell me.”

He shoots her a look, stopping still for a second, as if the idea itself is ridiculous. And maybe it is. But it’s the middle of the night, and she feels like she’s woken up in the middle of her life six years ago, like they’re straddling the line between a dream and reality. In the low light, the room feels smaller than it usually does—smaller than it actually is—and she’s reminded of a dozen other studios and motel rooms from the beginning, when the four of them split two double beds or hunkered down in the backseat of the van. 

Maybe that’s what late nights in hotel rooms are made for: that blurriness.

“You can,” she repeats, softer.

He softens, shifting his weight between his feet before he springs back into movement. Back and forth, and back and forth. “I don’t—I don’t really know where to start.”

“This is me,” she says, snagging his wrist and pulling him to a stop. “You can always speak your mind.”

He takes a sharp breath like he’s been burned, and shakes his hand loose of her grasp. “Yeah.” Then, a deep exhale, and he repeats, louder, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Is everything okay?” she says. “Are you—you’re not sick or something?”

A note of panic rings through the back of her mind, memories she hasn’t dredged up in years of her parents pulling her to the kitchen table for a family meeting, and that soft, encouraging smile that tried to comfort, to reassure, even when it brought nothing but pain.

“No,” he says. “No, don’t worry. It’s nothing like that.”

“So what is it?”

His laugh breaks a little bitter. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore,” he says. “I don’t know how to start.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just start,” she says. “We’ll figure the rest of it out as we go.”

“That worked so well for us before.”

“Luke.”

He pauses in his paces again, and takes a steadying breath. “I forgot what it was like to write with you.”

She takes a slow breath. “Okay,” she says. “Did you want to stop?”

“No, no,” he says, “That’s not what I mean. Writing with you has been—it’s been better than I imagined. Different.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“It’s not like I walked into this expecting anything,” he says. “You know, the way that we ended things—I didn’t feel right about…what I did. What I said. And all of this time has given me a chance to just…think.”

“You already apologized,” she says.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says, and then he’s moving again, not looking at her, wearing a track into the carpet.

“Luke, it’s two in the morning,” she says, wiping a hand over her face. “Can’t this wait?”

“No,” he cries. He takes a breath and says again, quiet and firm, “No. It can’t.”

She fidgets on her seat, kicking her bare feet against the end of the bed. When she looks up at him, he’s as still as he can be, bouncing lightly on his toes and swiping his palms against the fabric of his jeans. If it were any other time of day, any other time in her life, maybe she would reach out and try to get him to calm enough to tell her.

“Okay,” she says, so quiet she can barely even hear herself.

He edges closer to the bed, close enough for her bare foot to graze him on a kick. “Julie,” he says.

She takes a careful breath, afraid to look at him. There’s supposed to be nothing left to talk about, nothing left to think about. They belong to the graveyard of each other’s pasts, something to drag up again whenever they need to write new material, something to mine for their work but never anything more. And now, she thinks, they’re hovering on the edge of some new border between what they want and what’s possible, between what they want and what they deserve. 

“Sorry,” he says.

“Stop apologizing, and just say it,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “It’s late.”

“Yeah.”

She swallows hard, kicking the heel of her foot against the bed to try to focus on anything else. She can’t imagine all of the things that he might want to tell her. Now. In the privacy of her hotel room somewhere between midnight and morning. Before the last show of their lives. Before they say goodbye and mean it. 

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t want to keep you. I just…don’t know what’s going to happen after the show.”

She watches him carefully. “What do you mean?”

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, pressing his lips together as he considers his words. “I don’t know if it’s going to go back to how it was before or if—if it might…change.” 

She blinks at him. “Change,” she repeats.

“Having the chance to play with you and the boys again, to write with you, it’s been really good, but it’s been a lot. A lot to deal with, a lot of—the past, I guess. And I don’t know, I guess it’s just been messing with my head.”

“Messing with your head?” she says.

“Confusing,” he says. 

“You’re confused?”

“You’re not?”

“Confused about what?” she says.

He waves his hand in the air. “Everything,” he says. “What we’re doing, where we’re going, what the point is of…all this.”

“So what are you saying?” she says. “You came here to tell me that you don’t want to…” 

“No,” he says. “No. I want to try—whatever it is that you want—I want to try to make it work. But I can’t do that if I don’t know what you want. And I don’t know…that I know…what you want.” He approaches her, his body as relaxed as she’s seen it in the last ten minutes, crouching to meet her eye level.

She licks her lips idly, not daring to look up at him. “I thought we were on the same page,” she murmurs. “About boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” he repeats.

Her lips quirk up at the corners. “Yeah,” she says.

“Look, Jules,” he says. Then, catching himself with a shake of the head, “Julie. I don’t want things to be as bad as they were. And I’m—I want to follow your lead here. But it’s been a lot to jump back into, and it’s been…” His hand tremors lightly at his side, almost as if he’s holding himself back from reaching for something.

“Confusing,” she offers.

“Yeah.”

“What’s confusing?” she says. 

“This,” he says. “You. Us.”

She shakes her head. “There’s no us, Luke.”

“Okay,” he says. “But…”

But they’ve had a shadow of it chasing their heels all this time. But they’ve been flirting with the line, and maybe tested it a few too many times to make sure that it’s as firm as she remembers.

This time, when she catches his gaze, he isn’t holding anything back. He’s just looking at her, steady and open, almost cautious. But he’s always been careful with her in a way that he hasn’t been with anyone else, too aware of her thoughts and her feelings when she’d rather not talk about it at all. She wonders if he’s trying to be careful now.

It aches, the way he looks at her.

It makes her ache, how earnest it is, how unguarded. But even now, there’s something he’s holding back. Something he’s tiptoeing around because of her feelings. Not that it matters—she could always figure out what he was thinking. And it’s making the energy in the room shift, backsliding into something dangerous.

Rising off of the bed, she pushes past him towards the opposite side of the room, trying to give herself room to breathe. He follows behind her, hovering close, though never crossing the line. “What did you come here for?” she says finally, harsher than she intends.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low, and she bites her lip, trying to calm the anxious pulse of her heart, the sudden panic beating up through her chest. “Julie.”

She takes a deep breath, turning slowly and then, he’s there, inching towards her. Everything in her feels coiled and tight, aware of how close he is, aware of the space between them, aware of everything. What are they doing, she wants to know, and as always, the answer seems to be that she doesn’t know, she’s never known, that they’re racing each other off of the cliff and hoping to find something to catch their fall.

He reaches for her hand, and her body relaxes at his touch, opening towards him despite herself. “I just want answers,” he says. “That’s all. Tell me what I’m doing.”

She folds her arms over her chest and looks at him, slouching into a hip. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” she snaps. “What answers can I give you that I didn’t give you before? What answers do you want from me?” 

He makes a frustrated noise, sounding as exhausted as she feels. “What do you _want_ , Julie?” he says, finally. “Out of the Phantoms, out of the four of us? What do you want from me?”

She shakes her head. “It’s two in the morning, Luke. I’m just trying to get some sleep,” she says. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“No?” he says.

Heat flares up into her cheeks, but she shakes it off. “No,” she says. “I don’t want anything. I’m not trying to do anything. I just thought…it would be nice to…get some closure. After everything.”

“Is that what you want?” he says, voice turning rough. “Closure?”

Goosebumps prickle against her arms and she shivers, wrapping herself tighter in her robe. “Yes,” she whispers. 

He steps towards her, the muscles of his chest rippling as he moves, his arms flexing against the sleeve of his jacket. Sometimes she forgets just how much of him is pure muscle. 

He likes to make himself smaller when he’s around her, shrinking to meet her height, that she forgets how long his limbs are, how large he feels when he’s close, how much he can overwhelm her. He watches her as he approaches, body tensed like he’s trying to hold himself back, and the thought makes her want to do something incredibly stupid.

The thought makes her exceptionally warm.

“I didn’t come here to…,” he says, trailing off.

She doesn’t want to consider the rest of the sentence.

She wants to crawl back into her bed and pull the covers over her head. She wants a chance to breathe. Darting back a few steps, she stumbles against the dresser with a startled gasp. There’s a soft rumble as it knocks back against the wall, his hands reaching out towards her as if he’d go to catch her if she fell.

Her robe shifts loose, slipping down from her shoulder to her arm.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless.

When she adjusts the robe back into place, his eyes track the movement of her hands. Her skin buzzes, and she feels too aware of her own movements, of how her fingertips scratch along the line of her neck as she straightens the collar.

She feels like they’ve fallen into a dance somehow, every motion of hers choreographed to match every one of his, and the rhythm keeps getting faster, a little more intense. It’s dizzying and terrifying, the idea that she’s going to miss a step, the idea that she doesn’t know what happens after that.

“You were saying?” she says.

He clears his throat. “All I’m saying is that…I don’t know what you’re thinking. I can’t read your mind. And…it’s like I’m trying to see where you want to go with—with this—with us, with whatever you think is—with whatever makes sense.” 

It’s a funny thing to have a man in her hotel room late at night again. A funny thing to have to try to think about what it means. 

“I don’t want to cross any lines,” he says, finally.

She doesn’t even know what that means anymore. He was her first of so many things—the first man she ever really loved, the first person she wrote music with, the first bad break-up she’s ever had. They’ve crossed so many lines by now that she doesn’t even know what ground is left to cover.

Her leg extends, poking out on the carpet, her toe tracing a faint line. 

There’s never been that much standing between them, she thinks. They’ve always been too close for their own good, too much the same person, the same mind, too carried away by their easy understanding. The only thing that’s ever gotten between them is the two of them—what they’ve wanted, what they’ve resented, what they’ve abandoned.

It’s late, and she should be scared. She should feel terrified that he’s here asking something of her, something that isn’t even clear to her yet, when there’s no one left to tell her a bad idea from a good one. But she’s always known the difference. Luke’s never made her feel unsafe; he’s only ever made her wonder whether or not she could trust how safe she feels around him. And now, halfway to walking away from him, from closing the door, she thinks it can’t quite matter, that she was always going to slip and fall anyway. 

There’s something being set free inside of her that she can’t name yet, something molten and loose, something she hasn’t let herself feel in years.

And Luke is standing there, his hands jammed into his front pockets, shoulders slouching forward to hunch down to her height, to make her feel level with him. And he’s still talking, rambling over her silence because if he stops talking and lets it hang, it means the moment is over and he can’t control it anymore.

“Is it bad?” she interrupts. “To want closure?”

He tilts his head slightly, blinking at her, weighing her question. “No,” he says. “No, I think it’s…pretty normal. I guess.”

“Do you want closure?”

“It’s not about what I want,” he says, dropping his gaze to the ground.

“Why not?” she says. “Why isn’t it about what you want?” 

He swallows hard, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his jacket. “Because…”

“Everyone keeps trying to make it about me. But I’m not the only person that was in this, Luke. I can’t be the only one calling the shots. Why do you keep asking me? What do you want? Do you want closure?”

He scoffs, scratching at the back of his neck, and she grunts with irritation because she’s tired, she’s tired of tiptoeing around everything that they don’t want to talk about, tired of all the ways that he’s nudged the door open a crack without being willing enough to push it all the way open.

“Look at me,” she says.

“Julie.”

“No,” she says. “You wanted to talk, so we’re talking. Look at me when you’re talking to me.”

His lashes cast a long shadow against his cheek, but he blinks up at her slowly. His eyes are dark, and she nods with satisfaction as she studies him, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. 

His eyes touch on her mouth, almost quick enough for her to miss.

“Okay,” she breathes.

He nods lightly. “Are you really asking me?” he says, voice husky.

Goosebumps prickle against her arms, against the back of her neck, and warmth tips down from her chest into her belly. This isn’t allowed anymore. They decided a long, long time ago that this wasn’t allowed anymore. But he isn’t playing by the rules.

And it doesn’t seem like he cares. He rocks back onto his heels, his gaze locked on her as he waits for her to answer. It’s always been so easy for him, she thinks, everything black and white, with-him or against-him, that it’s what he deserves—to feel confused about them for once in his life. To feel as lost as she has every second.

Heat rises up into her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. She’s never been able to walk away from a challenge—especially not one between the two of them.

He looks at her as if he knows what she’s thinking, as if he can feel how warm she is even in the thin fabric of her robe.

“We can’t just pick up where we left off,” she says.

He raises his eyebrows at the suggestion, and she colors.

They’re balanced on that knife edge again, she thinks, she knows, and all it would take is a little push in any direction to get it to topple over. It’s dangerous, but she doesn’t want to stop.

She wants to see just how far this goes.

It would be so easy. All it would take would be to close the distance and stop thinking. But that way lies madness. That way lies the rest of the night, and Luke in her bed, and feelings that she isn’t ready to open back up again. It wouldn’t solve anything, but there’s an appealing sort of logic in sinking back into the old mistakes and losing herself in the feelings of her body. 

For old time’s sake, she thinks.

“So what is it?” he says. “Because you’re going to leave tomorrow. Show is over, goodbye Cleveland, and then—what’s left, exactly?”

She gives an ironic laugh. “Unfinished business, maybe,” she says. “Maybe that’s what this is.”

“Unfinished business,” he repeats. 

She hums in answer, leading with her hips as she moves towards him. He shifts on his feet, his shoulders tensing as she steps nearer. Like he’s afraid of what might happen if she gets too close. “Yeah,” she whispers.

“But you want closure,” he says.

“Yeah.” Her hands fall to fuss with the sash of the tie, the silk slick against her fingertips.

He leans back, watching her carefully with narrowed eyes, his jaw working. 

She remembers too much about the things that she should never have held onto, and it’s impossible to stop thinking of them now. All of the nights they spent in hotel rooms like this, all of the nights they pretended that they didn’t feel the way that they felt. The heat of his hands and the weight of his body and the feeling of him buried inside of her heat—when he looks at her, it’s as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. As if he’s remembering the exact same scenes.

He scrubs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Fuck,” he swears, and the warmth in her belly grows to a heat. “Which is it, Jules? It’s one or the other. Pick whatever you want, but you have to let me know.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

She blinks up at him from beneath her lashes, a little too coy for their conversation. A little too dangerous for this time of night. “Why is it one or the other?”

“Because,” he says, clearing his throat. “You can close the door, end it, and leave it at that. Or you can…leave it open.”

When she speaks, her voice is quiet and raspy. “What do you want?”

She takes another step closer, her hips swaying lightly, pulse hammering near the edge of her skin. 

He licks his lips, and she suddenly wants to stop talking, wants to tell herself to learn, for once, when to know to shut the fuck up.

“What do you want?” he says.

“Stop putting it all on me. Stop trying to make me decide for you. What is it that you want from me?”

“Why?” he says. There’s another pause, and his eyes flick over her, casually, so casually, that she can feel it like the feather of a touch. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t ever happen.”

Her fingers slip loose the cinch of knot at her waist, and then her robe falls open. Trickling down the backs of her shoulders while he’s sucking in a breath, looking at her and trying not to, looking at her with the force of everything that he’s trying not to say. 

They’ve never been good at this game, she thinks. They’ve never been good at pretending.

“Julie,” he says, voice gravelly with warning.

She’s in an oversized cut-off t-shirt, so old it’s starting to fray at the ends, so large it seems to swallow her in it. But he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at her, his mouth falling open, and it seems like neither of them are trying to hide anything anymore.

His eyes flick down the length of her legs, eyeing the flash of her thigh as she shifts. “That’s my shirt,” he says, wiping at his mouth.

She glances up at him, sliding one leg over the other as she shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You kept my shirt?”

“Maybe.”

“Julie,” he says again, softer, pleading, and the sound of it goes straight to her core. 

Her thighs reflexively clench to ease some of the tension. “You’re always saying you want answers,” she says. “Like you don’t know what you want. But you do. You just want to pretend to ask me—”

“I am asking you!”

“—because you don’t want to think about what you’ve already decided.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter what I decide!” he says, voice rising. “Because tomorrow, you’re fucking gone. No matter what.”

“Yeah,” she says, biting on her lip. “Yeah, and what the fuck are you going to do about it?”

But he isn’t even looking at her anymore. His eyes stay locked on the floor, hands balled in tight fists by his side.

She steps towards him, intruding into his space.

“I’m trying to play by your rules.”

“What rules?” she says, tilting her head up to study him. “I don’t remember giving you a rulebook.”

He mutters under his breath. “It’d be easier if you had.” He’s fighting touching her, arching ever so slightly away from her touch. His jaw flexes as he swallows, the cords of his throat visible. 

She walks into him, knocking her shoulder against his arm, legs bumping his knees to try to force his hand. But he doesn’t move. 

He likes to try for lean and lanky that she forgets how he’s actually built, solid and big and broad. There’s nothing gangly or awkward about him. “How many times are we going to do this?” he says. “Have the same conversation?”

She blinks at him. “Until we get what we’re looking for,” she says.

“Yeah?” he says, leaning dangerously into her space.

She fights the urge to grasp his arms to steady herself. To catch him and press her body flush against his, to figure out all of the ways that they once—that they still—fit together. 

“And what are you looking for, Julie?” he says. “Closure?”

She licks her lips, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Yeah.”

“Bullshit,” he says.

“Fuck you,” she tries, but it comes out all wrong. It’s a little too breathless, a little too weak, and there’s no hiding how her voice swallows the words.

His hand comes up to cup her jaw, finally, and she leans into it, biting back a soft moan at the feel of his skin rough and hot against her own. His thumb brushes slowly across the bow of her mouth, and she puckers her lips against the contact, pressing the softest of kisses against the pad of his finger.

“Fuck,” he says, sounding broken, sounding ruined, thumb grazing against her lips again. It’s enough to make her knees weak.

Her entire body is frozen, tensed, waiting to exhale. All of her blood has rushed south, pulsing with anticipation.

“Tell me what you want.”

She doesn’t say _you_ , which is a big enough victory on its own. Instead, she skates her hand up the side of his neck, her fingers grazing the edge of his hairline. Pressing up on her toes, she leans close, brushing her lips softly against his cheek.

His teeth click together on a stutter of a breath, and she feels a slight rush at knowing that she can still do this to him. That she still has this power after all of this time.

“Julie,” he says, nearly groaning. “Julie, please.”

“What, Luke?” she says. “Tell me what you want.”

He growls, actually growls, as his hands hook behind her back and drag her into him. “Fuck you,” he mumbles against the crown of her head.

She breathes hard through her mouth as he presses her against his chest, heat rushing up along the base of her spine. All of it’s too much—the nearness of him, the heat of his hands burning through the fabric of her shirt, the soft huff of his breath against her, the hard muscle of his thigh bearing against hers. She links her hands behind his neck and pulls herself up onto her toes, leaning her body into his.

He stumbles on his feet, his hips rocking lightly against hers with the motion. 

She whines at the contact, a needy little noise that escapes before she knows it’s coming, as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.

“Are you enjoying this?” he murmurs.

They haven’t done anything but talk and there’s already a tightness in her belly, slickness between her thighs. It’s been a while, but not enough to make this anything less than embarrassing. But maybe that’s just the effect that he’s always had on her, this ability to empty her mind of every thought until she’s just focused on how she feels when she’s around him. When he’s touching her.

She spreads her legs a little wider, sliding her hips slowly against his, relishing in the friction between her legs. It’s barely there, the faintest pressure against where she needs it, and all it’s managing to do is wind her up.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth as he realizes what she’s doing, swearing under his breath. 

“Julie,” he hums, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

This close, they could be dancing. They could be doing a lot of other things. But for now, they’re just swaying on their feet, holding each other and pretending that they know what they’re doing. (She knows what they’re doing.

Playing with fire is what they’re doing.)

He hums, bunching her shirt in his hands as his hips rock back against hers. “No?” he says.

They’ve never been good at not playing chicken.

His hand dips further down, cupping the round swell of her ass and giving it a hard squeeze as she bites back another sigh. She can already feel the hard length of him pressing insistent against her leg, and she twists in his embrace, smirking as she blinks up at him. “And what are you doing?” she asks.

His hips sway against hers, the pressure light enough to tease, and they circle there in the middle of her room, like they’re doing some kind of a dance. “I don’t know,” he echoes.

“Is this why you came over?” she says.

He scoffs a laugh. “You think I planned this?” 

“I don’t think you plan anything in your life,” she says, nuzzling her nose against the side of his neck. He smells like soap, woodsy and familiar, and smoke and Luke, and she takes a second to breathe him in. It’s quiet outside, quiet in the hallway, so quiet she can hear how quickly his heart is beating, how fast he’s breathing. “But I just want to know what you thought was going to happen.” 

“I thought we’d talk,” he says, his hands trailing up to anchor against the center of her back. “I thought you’d tell me to fuck off, and I’d head back to my hotel…”

“Fair guess,” she says.

“You’re usually pretty good at that,” he says, stammering. “Talking, I mean.”

She lifts her head and shoots him a look. “Good at other things, too.” 

She angles her hips against his, and oh—there he is, hot and solid against her. Biting her lip, she grinds against his length with a soft groan.

“Julie,” he says, short and controlled.

She can’t, she won’t be the first to break their spell of silence, but Christ. She’s so wet she can feel it against her thighs, and they haven’t even fucking kissed. “Mmhmm?”

“Do you want me to go?” he says.

She drags a hand through his hair, scratching her nails along his scalp, and he groans. “Luke,” she says. “Don’t play stupid.”

His leg slides between hers, thigh solid underneath her as he presses her against him. His mouth leans near the shell of her ear. “I don’t want you to have any regrets,” he whispers, tracing the edge of her ear with his tongue.

A sigh hitches in her throat, and she leans in to kiss the hollow of his neck.

He groans quietly. “I want you to set the limits.”

“Luke,” she says, half-whine, half-moan. Her skin is warm, too warm for all of these clothes she’s wearing, and all she wants to do is to kiss him and taste him, sharp on her tongue. 

He leans back and looks at her. “I don’t want to fuck this up,” he says, touching his forehead to hers.

She blinks through a haze of desire, watching as his tongue wets his lips, as his lips gently part, waiting for her to close the distance. And fuck, she thinks. She doesn’t care about any of it—the baggage, the history, the fighting—all she wants is the honesty of his hands against her skin. All she wants is to kiss him until his lips are swollen and bruised, until their bodies wear each other like bruises.

She misses his hands. Those rough, unpolished hands with their broad palms and their guitar-string calluses.

“You can’t control everything, Luke,” she says. “No matter how much you want to.”

His hands rake into her hair, tangling in her curls, and she groans at the contact. “You’re telling me that?” he laughs. His hips surge forward, and she bites back a moan.

He’s holding himself so still she can barely believe that he’s breathing, but she can see his hard swallow, the quick tightening of his jaw. 

Her hands cup his face.

“Why?” she whispers, pressing up on her toes, her lips hovering near his.

His mouth tilts up, near enough to brush against hers. “Why what?” 

She touches her mouth to his in a tease of a kiss. It’s not enough, not by a mile, but her mind is already spinning from the taste of him, from how his mouth pushes back so gently, how he leans a little harder into it, urging her for more. And god, she wants more. 

More of his hands, more of his mouth, more. 

The hard muscle of his thigh presses up against her, involuntary, accidental, and her hips rut against him. She’s past the point of caring by this point, her body so tightly wound she can’t focus on anything except the delicious friction building between her legs. She can feel his eyes on her, his hands gripping her hips steady but not stopping her, as she grinds down against him. 

“Fuck,” he says, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Julie.”

She blinks up at him through her haze. “What are you afraid of?”

He scoffs a laugh, his fingers tightening against her skin. “Are you kidding?”

“It doesn’t have to be like it was,” she says. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Julie,” he says, and she kisses him, light and soft on the lips to get him to shut up.

“Shh,” she says. She toes backward to give them space, and pushes his jacket off of his shoulders.

It lands on the floor with a soft crumple of fabric.

He chuckles, low in his throat. “This isn’t helping,” he says, “With the confusing part.”

But that’s it. She isn’t wasting any more time. On thinking, on talking. Grasping the hem of her shirt, she pulls it up and over her head in one smooth motion and drops it to the ground beside her. Her heart is loud in her chest, but all she knows is that she needs to touch him, needs to be touched, more than she needs anything else right now. 

“Jesus,” he breathes.

Her breasts feel heavy in the chill of the night air, but she keeps her shoulders back, approaching him with all of the confidence she doesn’t feel. She wants to cover her breasts with his hands, wants to touch and kiss every inch of him, but she takes her time, moving slowly, carefully. 

He looks dazed and a little lost, like she’s just belted him with a punch he wasn’t anticipating.

It’s how she feels too, the world spinning on its axis, everything moving too fast to be seen, to be understood.

“It’s just me,” she says.

He huffs out a hard breath in disbelief. “Yeah.”

“Stop thinking,” she says. “Just kiss me.”

So he does.

  
There have been other men since him—other men she’s dated and kissed and touched, other men who have touched her. But she’s forgotten how it feels to be on the receiving end of all of that focus, all of that energy and attention. He kisses her like he’s got something to prove, like he’s trying to commit as much of her to memory as possible before she slips through his fingers. He kisses her wet and a little messy, groaning into her mouth as his tongue teases hers.

If she thought she was sensitive before, her body’s practically on fire now, and she runs her hands up beneath his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of him against her hands. But god, she’s forgotten how good a kisser he is, how much he likes to taste.

His hand cups her cheek, thumb pressing against the underside of her chin, kissing her soft and slow. Like he’s savoring it. But it’s been too long since she’s felt his touch, too many years of dreaming about it, and she doesn’t have the patience.

Her hands pull up the fabric of his shirt, brushing against the hard muscles of his stomach.

He growls into her mouth, something low and possessive that she can’t catch, and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to do anything other than touch him, than put all of her body into his hands so he can touch her. With a soft whine, she pushes them backwards towards the bed. He tries to move and kiss her at the same time, laughing against her mouth as they clumsily make their way, when his arm tightens hard around her back, steadying her as he half-leads, half-carries her in the right direction.

When he pulls away, he looks rumpled—mouth swollen and a little pink, eyes half-lidded. She opens her mouth to say something, to ask if she’s pushing it too much, if she’s asking for too much, but he just toes off his shoes and socks, yanking off his t-shirt in one smooth movement before adding them to the pile she started. She exhales through her teeth when she sees him, all lean muscle and bone and scars that she hasn’t seen in a long, long time. 

Some of them must be new.

“Hi,” he says, a little sheepish for how naked they both are.

She licks her lips and feels her mouth go dry. “Hi,” she breathes. A nervous laugh bubbles up through her, and she suddenly feels like she did the first time they kissed, like the first time they slept together, like she’s young and naive and too aware of her own feelings. If it’ll mean anything, if it won’t mean anything at all, if she cares whether it does or it doesn’t. 

He stalks towards her, and she loses herself in the sight. He can be graceful when he’s focused, all of the muscles in his body lean and taut as he moves, and she feels a rush of anticipation at knowing what comes next. 

His fingertips brush the sides of her ribs as he pulls her in close for another kiss. Her breasts graze against his chest, and she groans at the contact as he tips her head up and swallows the noise. 

She gasps lightly, biting at his bottom lip as her hands reach for the button of his jeans.

“Impatient,” he murmurs, slotting his thigh between her legs. 

“Slow,” she gasps, riding against his leg. 

She’s so wet she must be marking his jeans, but he doesn’t say anything, just reaches for the side of her neck, his thumb sliding against her throat. It’s embarrassing how close she is already, how little she needs to take her over the edge.

“Mmm?” he says.

There’s a light touch of pressure against her throat and she tilts her head back, eyes rolling back into her head. It feels so good, the taste of him, the roughness of his hands, both exactly like she remembers and not at all like she remembers. His body feels a little changed, a little thinner in spots, a little softer in others, but everything else feels the same—how much she wants him and how desperately.

All she can hear is the roughness of her own breathing, the short break of her pants as she tries for any relief.

“Christ, Jules,” he says.

She squirms, straining forward to kiss him again, but he pulls back, keeping the distance between them. She must look a sight, she thinks, mouth red and stung from his kisses, hair messed between his hands.

“You want to know what I want?” he says, and god, she’s forgotten that he’s a talker, that he likes to tell her what he’s doing and ask too many questions, that her body can come alive just with the way he pronounces her name, with the way his voice breaks on a swear. The things his voice can do to her are unspeakable.

“What?” she says, breathless. 

She reaches a hand between them to cup him through his jeans, and he groans, his hips rocking forward into her touch. It’s an awkward angle, but she does her best, sliding the butt of her hand along his length. He bucks up against her with a low groan, biting at her neck. 

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Bed,” she huffs, pulling him by his belt loops. Her fingers fumble with the fly when his hand catches her wrist and pulls it aside, his legs bumping hers as he walks her backward. 

“We have all night,” he says, and she nods mutely because fuck yes, they do.

“And you’re still wasting all this time,” she says. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she collapses against it, shifting back to make room for him.

“Always forcing the tempo,” he says, shucking off his jeans and kicking them onto the ground. 

“Fuck you,” she laughs, as he follows her onto the bed. He climbs on top of her, and she curls her hand around his bicep and reaches for him with the other. “Kiss me?” she says, and he’s looking at her like—like she doesn’t know how—like she’s never had to ask him in his life, like she’s precious. 

When he kisses her, it’s rough, his lips pulling at hers, hand sliding underneath her head to gather her hair in his fist. There’s a light snap of pressure and she moans, tilting her head back into his grasp. Fuck, the things he knows how to do to her. She’s forgotten what it’s like to be with someone who knows her body this well, who remembers exactly what she likes and what she doesn’t.

“Luke,” she moans.

He’s too busy to answer, his mouth sucking a trail down from her neck towards her collarbone. His hands come up to cup her breasts, the palms sliding flat and rough over them as she squirms, boneless underneath him. 

At her voice, he lifts his head to glance at her, looking smug and a little too proud of himself. “You know how many times I thought about you?” he whispers. 

She shudders, her hips pressing low into the bed.

“Just like this,” he continues. “All the sounds you make, the way you look…”

His mouth closes over her breast, hot and wet. His tongue scrapes flat against her skin, and her head tips back against the bed, eyes sliding shut on a quiet gasp. No matter how many times she’s dreamed of this, it’s a different thing to face it in reality—the heat of his body, the pressure of his mouth, the low lap of his voice in the quiet. No one’s ever known her like he has, she thinks. No one’s ever touched her like he has.

“Just like that,” he murmurs. “All for me.” He lifts his head and crawls back up the length of her body, nuzzling against her neck. “You know what you do to me?” 

She kisses him in answer, wrapping her legs around his waist. It’s overwhelming, how much she needs to feel him, touch him, be close to him, and if she has to take a second to think about it, she can already feel herself going out of her mind with how bad an idea this is.

“You all right?” he murmurs. His mouth shines in the light with wet, lips looking nearly bruised, and she nods because she can’t think of a word to say. She feels dizzy, lightheaded, and he’s barely even touched her. “It’s me.”

And yeah, she thinks, that’s the fucking problem. It’s him, and it’s always been him, and hasn’t that been the uncomfortable truth both of them have been avoiding all these years?

His teeth scrape lightly against her neck, and she shudders, groaning softly. 

“I never forgot about you,” he whispers.

There’s a heaviness in her chest then, a sudden pull of an old wound that bleeds through her, and she presses her knee against his waist, rolling them over. She tosses her hair with a soft laugh, parking herself against his hips, grinning at his hiss as she settles herself against him. It’s easier when they’re just thinking about their bodies, she thinks. It’s easier when they aren’t thinking at all.

He angles his head back against the mattress, the hollow of his neck pale and slender, and looks at her, his thumb tracing a line against her bare hip.

“I thought about you all the time,” he says.

“Yeah?” she breathes, rocking her hips against his hard length. 

His eyes slide shut on a soft groan.

“How did you think about me?” she says, speeding up her pace.

“Fuck,” he swears, his hands heavy on her hips as he slows her pace. “You’re killing me. Come here.”

Her hair drapes the side of his face as she leans down to kiss him. His fingers comb through clumsily, holding it away from his face as he licks up into her mouth. She grinds down against him as they kiss, the familiar tension ratcheting tighter in her belly, when he grips her hips and rolls her onto her back.

She spreads her legs a little wider, making space for him, and he presses closer until he’s nearly lined up against her. With only the thinnest fabric separating them, her hips circle his, desperate for friction.

His hands pin her wrists over her head, his other hand reaching down between them to finally touch her. She can tell just how desperate he is, his fingers circling her swollen flesh through her underwear.

“Jesus, Julie. You’re so wet,” he says, “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re all ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

His thumb dips shallowly against her, knuckles brushing her lightly, and she gasps, her hips jerking against his hand.

“What do you want, Julie? Just tell me what you want.”

She tries to snake a hand down between her legs, but he tightens his grip on her wrists as she squirms against the lightness of his touch. “Luke…”

“Mmm?”

“God…”

“What do you want?” he hums, all smug and annoying, and she growls in answer. “Use your words.”

He nuzzles his nose against her sternum, licking another stripe against her breast.

“Touch me,” she says. “You asshole.”

He hums, low in his throat, as he releases her hands, slipping down the length of her body. His fingertips catch at the elastic of her underwear, pressing against her skin as he peels them off of her and tosses them aside. 

She’s so turned on she can’t think about anything other than how close she is, but when she reaches down between her legs, he bats her hand away. “Luke,” she whines.

“Patience is a virtue,” he says, and then his breath fogs hot against her thigh. 

His shoulders nudge her legs further apart, and then his hands are lifting her hips to meet his mouth.

She slides her hand into his hair on a cry. “Jesus, fuck, Luke, yes…” 

His mouth is hot against her, fingers spreading her open as the flat of his tongue slides against her sensitive flesh. It sounds obscene, how loud she’s breathing, the wet noise of his tongue working against her, and she can’t help herself from grinding down against his face. It’s been way too long since she’s done this, way too long since she’s done this with Luke, that when he sinks two fingers inside of her, up to the knuckle, and pumps them, she can already feel herself on the edge again.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, her hips rocking against him.

“That’s it, Jules,” he murmurs, “That’s it,” and it’s the low tone of his voice, encouraging her, the way his fingers work in and out of her, that pushes her over the edge. “You’re so tight,” he hums, like he doesn’t quite believe it, like he’s drunk off the feeling, and she squeezes her muscles around him as her hips press down into the bed.

He strokes her hair away from her face, and she pulls him down for a kiss.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “Take your boxers off.”

“Bossy,” he says, but his voice is low and warm, as turned on as she is.

He pulls his boxers down, leaving them on the floor, and then he’s climbing back onto the bed, over her. He kisses her again, the taste of her still sharp on his tongue. 

She pushes him onto his back, straddling his hips as she slides over him.

It’s been a long time since she’s had anyone in her bed. It’s been a long time since she’s had him in her bed, and she takes a minute just to commit him to memory. The sight of him, head leaning back against the pillows as he watches her, mouth swollen, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. They always knew how to work together, she thinks, when they weren’t driving each other crazy.

“Taking your time?” he says, gruffly.

She chuckles, a throaty noise, and he digs his fingers against the muscles of her thighs. “What do you want, Luke?” she says, voice raspy with desire. 

He moans at the sound of it. “I want you,” he says, as she licks her palm and takes him in hand. “I want you so fucking bad.”

She gives him a few gentle strokes, her thumb tracing along his skin, as he arches up into her touch. He moans her name as she works him, his eyes squeezed shut. 

She licks her lips as she leans down to take him in her mouth.

“Fucking Christ,” he gasps. 

He’s hot in her mouth, all salt and musk against her tongue, and she licks along the length of him as he moans. He slides a hand into her hair, his hand a passive weight against her head. 

She sucks at him lightly, and his hips jerk up against the bed.

He hums. “You feel so good…”

She drags her mouth up, running her lips against the head, and he gasps at her to stop.

“Jesus, you don’t even know what you look like right now.”

She can guess: a little pink, a little sloppy, a little mussed. 

She darts off the bed to the dresser for a condom, tearing it open and rolling it over him as quick as she can. Climbing back on top of him, she pushes his shoulders down against the bed as she kisses him, tongue sliding dirty and wet into his mouth. 

He fists her hair in his hand, grinning against her moan.

“You don’t know how much I thought about this,” he murmurs, “About you.”

She hums and slides her slick heat over him again, teasing. “About me riding you?” she asks, innocently, voice rough with want. “About you buried inside of me?”

“Jesus,” he hisses.

She grasps him by the base, guiding him towards her entrance. She nudges the tip against her swollen folds, teasing herself, as he leans up on his elbows with a smirk.

“I thought I was moving too slow for you,” he says.

“Shut up,” she says, sinking down on him. She gasps softly, easing all the way down his length. Her muscles flutter around him as they adjust, and he digs his fingers into the flesh of her thighs with a groan. 

“Taking a minute?” he asks, and she squirms against his lap for payback, urging him a little deeper. He tilts his head back, eyes rolling back into his head. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

She whines a little as she shifts her hips, and he sinks even deeper. “Shit,” she sighs, digging her nails into his chest. “Fuck.”

She drags herself up his length and down again, her ass and her hips rolling into the motion, as she tries to set a rhythm while he gasps against the bed. He feels so good inside her and she just wants to chase the high of that feeling, him splitting her open, rough and thick inside of her, as she rocks against his hips.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Come on, Jules.”

His hands skim her ribcage, palms rolling over her breasts, as she speeds her pace. It’s quiet except for the harsh noise of her panting, her hair falling forward as she steadies her hands against the mattress and arches her back. She whines softly as she slams down against him.

She can tell she’s close when her movements get sloppy, her hips knocking rough against his as she tries to bury him deeper. She squeezes her muscles as she rocks back down and his hands tighten on her hips.

“Fuck, Julie,” he says. His hips thrust up against hers, quick and hard, and she shudders a gasp as she gets close.

He reaches his hand between them, thumb circling at her sensitive flesh. “Jesus,” she gasps.

“Good?” he says.

She leans her forehead down against his and grazes his mouth. “Oh,” she moans. “Luke, yes…”

He kisses her again this time, soft enough to bruise.

Rolling her over onto her back, he angles one of her legs up as he drives himself inside of her. She gasps as her head hits the pillows, her body rocking against his as her muscles tighten around him. It feels so good, so right, all of him pressed up against her, that she never wants to let him go. 

His eyes are open, studying hers, as she drifts back into her body. “I missed you,” he says, rocking shallowly into her.

She swallows a groan around his mouth. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she whispers.

And then he’s pulling her closer, showering kisses against the line of her neck. “Just you, sweetheart,” he says, thrusting into her. “It’s just you.”

She grips onto his arms, breath coming in short pants as she grinds against him. “Luke,” she breathes.

And then it’s the sound of his skin hitting hers, the grunts he makes low in his throat as he gets close. 

He leans down, his hand sliding underneath her back. “I got you,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

When she wakes up in the middle of the night, his body is still wrapped around hers, his arms circled around her waist. Turning to face him, she finds him awake, his head propped against his hand, watching her. 

“Hi,” she says, the sheets twisting around her.

His hand trails up against the line of her back. “Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

He reaches to brush her hair behind her ear, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Nothing,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah?” she says. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. 

“I meant what I said,” she says. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

He inches closer to her in bed, warmth radiating off of his skin. “Jules,” he says.

“I’m not looking for anything,” she continues.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” he says.

When she looks up at him, his eyes are as steady as she’s seen them, soft and guarded.

Reaching out, she traces the line of his bicep with her fingertips, the muscle hard beneath her touch. “You know, it’s not like I didn’t think about it,” she says, haltingly. “Reaching out. After—well, after Japan and after everything. But I just—”

“You didn’t want to think about it,” he says.

She bites her lip and glances up at him, nodding.

His hand cups the crown of her head as he leans in to press a soft kiss against her mouth. “I know,” he says. “I mean, I figured.”

“It wasn’t about—” she begins, hesitating. “It wasn’t all about you. There was a lot that I needed to figure out.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation either.”

“No,” she says. “I do. I think that after—I think that the least I owe you is an explanation.” 

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Do you think about it?” she says. “The band?”

“The band?” he repeats. He exhales sharply, rolling onto his back and glancing up at the ceiling. “I mean—what about the band?”

She leans her head against her hand and studies him as he swats his hands through his hair, stealing a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “It was our everything for so long,” she says. “I mean, we were kids.”

“Yeah.”

“It couldn’t be our whole lives.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe not.”

“And none of us knew what we were doing, what we were getting ourselves into. And it just kept getting bigger and bigger, and we were all drowning—none of us were in a good place.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It makes sense. Why it ended the way that it did.”

“We weren’t ready for…any of it. We weren’t ready to deal with it.”

“And now?” he says, turning back onto his side to look at her.

She shrugs. “Nothing changes,” she says, throwing an arm around his side and scratching a line against the plane of his back. “Nothing’s different.”

“We’re different,” he says.

“Maybe,” she says.

“Julie…”

“I mean, I know that we hurt each other about—about—we both did things that we don’t like to think about.”

“Yeah.”

“And it doesn’t make sense to think about what we would have done differently,” she says. “We can’t change any of it.”

“Yeah.”

“But…there was a lot that I held against you for a really long time,” she says, “And I just wanted to say—I mean, I thought you should know. Maybe it wasn’t fair—it wasn’t fair—”

“You were right to be,” he says. “After everything that I did.”

“Yeah,” she says, with a rueful laugh. “Yeah, maybe. You were a dick.”

“Yeah.”

“But I wasn’t—I could have—it didn’t have to be the years of silence, you know?” she says. “I could have picked up the phone or something. Reached out. I know that now. And I know Reggie and Alex tried to help, but I didn’t want to listen.”

“Julie?” he says. “No offense, but what does it matter now?”

She settles back into the mattress, exhaling a deep sigh. He rolls onto his side and reaches an arm around her waist, holding her against him. “Maybe it doesn’t,” she says. “But I never got to tell you—I wanted you to know what I was thinking. It wasn’t just to—just to ice you out. I had a lot to figure out myself.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we both did.”

“Yeah,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About how it all went down.”

She turns to face him and kisses him lightly. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry, too.”

He pecks another quick kiss against her mouth.

“But you’re right,” she says. “What does it matter now? It’s just…”

“Unfinished business?” he says.

“Clearing the air,” she says. “Maybe that’s the best we can hope for.”

And then they’re just lying there together in her bed, neither of them speaking. She tucks her head against the crook of his shoulder, suddenly shy, suddenly terrified about what any of it means.

But maybe they were telling the truth, and maybe none of it means anything more. Maybe it’s one of those last goodbyes, the kind where they finally lay to rest everything that they’ve been dragging up from the past over the years. Maybe this is how they start to move on.

“Julie?” he says.

She hums.

“When this is over…” he starts.

“Then we go home,” she says. “We go back to our regular lives.”

He hums, a non-answer of an answer.

This time, when he kisses her, it’s slower, a little searching. She pulls his arm to wrap around her a little tighter, and neither of them talk any more after that.

When the morning comes, it’s cold and too bright, her phone buzzing enthusiastically on the table.

She climbs out of his grasp and picks it up. “Yeah,” she says, voice raspy with sleep.

Over the phone, Amy rattles off a plan of action for the day along with a dozen questions that she barely catches.

“I’m still figuring things out,” she says, glancing towards him, still asleep in bed. “Meet me at the Hall of Fame ahead of the ceremony and we can talk about it.”

He stirs at the sound of her voice, smiling up at her as he stretches awake.

“No,” she says, “I haven’t talked to Jonah yet.”

Luke watches her from his position on the bed for a second before he jumps up and starts scrambling for his clothing from the floor.

“We’ll talk about it,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

Wordlessly, he starts to dress in record time, his fly barely zipped before he’s slipping his jacket on and moving out the door, barefoot with his socks and shoes in hand.

Over the phone, Amy asks her again if she’s all right.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just a long night. Thinking about a lot of stuff.”

“Don’t get yourself caught up in the Phantoms hype,” Amy says. “It’s all over and done with. Wrap it up and it’ll be over.”

“Yeah,” she says. “You’re right.”

“That’s right, I’m right,” Amy says. “So stop worrying. I’ll see you at the event. As will Jonah.”

She sighs. “Yeah. See you there.”

She doesn’t see him again until the ceremony. 

There’s a red carpet rolled out for the occasion, a press line set up with photographers everywhere. She’s dressed and styled in a sheer, sequined electric blue jumpsuit and the tallest heels her stylist was able to find, her hair loose and teased high. Amy’s beside her the entire time, chatting about the schedule, about the afterparties, about remembering to hype the new album in her interviews. But all she can think about is the rest of the night, is their performance, is having to walk the line with the boys and pretend like everything’s the same as it was.

“You look nervous,” Amy says. “You want a mint or something?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just…been a while,” she says.

“Look,” Amy says, squeezing her hands, “You’re the biggest star in the world. This is a moment for you to shine, and to pay your respects to what got you here. You’ve done bigger things, and you’re going to keep shining after this.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“Try to cheer up,” she says. “You look like you’re walking into a funeral.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

They’re meant to be walking the interview line together, so she meets the boys in the staging area at the back. They’re all there by the time she heads over, gripping her clutch as a lifeline.

Reggie and Luke are dressed in nearly matching dark suits, hair slicked back in the simplest style, but Alex dons a pink velvet jacket, his hair swept back to look like something out of an old movie.

She squeals when she sees him, striding over carefully. “You look amazing!” she says, wrapping her arms around him.

Alex gives her the once-over. “So do you!” he says. “That blue looks killer on you.”

Luke buries his hands in his pockets, eyes darting quickly over her. 

She gives a small twirl to show off the cape sleeves, before turning towards the others with a shy smile. “Ready?” she says. 

Reggie reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sheet of notebook paper. “Locked and loaded, boss.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Alex says, rolling his eyes.

She reaches for their hands and gives them a squeeze. “Come on, guys,” she says, breathlessly. “Let’s go be Julie and the Phantoms one last time.”

As they head towards the carpet, he slows his stride and trails behind her, playing with the cuff of his jacket. 

“You look amazing,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” she says. “You cleaned up nice.”

“Once in a while, I remember to wash my hair,” he jokes, flatly.

After that, they walk in silence for a bit, stilted and awkward. He turns his head to look at her a few times as if weighing whether or not he wants to say something, and she wishes he would either go for it or stop looking at her. She wishes that she couldn’t remember so clearly what he smelled like in her bed this morning, what he looked like in the early morning glow, the softness of his lips. 

“How are you feeling?” he says.

She glances up towards Alex and Reggie, and clears her throat. “It’s going to be a little weird,” she says. “Having to talk about it again. It’s been a while.”

“You don’t get asked about it a lot, I guess,” he says.

“I don’t talk about it,” she says. “No.”

He reaches for her arm and gives it a quick squeeze. “Hey,” he says. “I’m not trying to make things any weirder.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s just been a—a weird week.”

Alex and Reggie stop a ways ahead, turning to look at them both with exaggerated gestures of exasperation. She motions towards her shoes and slowly makes her way down the carpet.

Luke extends his arm to her without a word.

“Thanks,” she says, leaning against him as they try to catch up.

“When are you leaving?” he says, so quiet that she nearly misses it. “Cleveland.”

“Tomorrow, I think,” she says. “Amy’s trying to book me on a bunch of other spots in LA before we start getting into rehearsals for the tour.”

“Right.”

“What about you?”

He gives a weak laugh. “Michael’s less worried about me,” he says. “It’ll just be back to the studio.”

“You writing new stuff again?”

He shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “I’m always writing, even when I’m not writing. But we’ll probably figure out a US tour or something for the latest.”

She can sketch out the edges of what he’s trying to avoid saying—something about goodbyes, something about the night that neither of them want to talk about, that neither of them agreed to talk about, something about all of the past that they’re revisiting tonight and burying. Inside her purse is a speech she jotted down sometime between the sleep-deprived hours of the week and the exhausted hours of this morning.

If she’s being honest, she doesn’t remember what she wrote. Doesn’t even know if she’ll be able to read her own sloppy handwriting.

But tonight isn’t about her, or them—it’s about the Phantoms and everything that they managed to do, even when they weren’t sure what they were doing. Glancing up, she sees Alex and Reggie waiting for them, their arms spread wide open like they’re waiting for them to run into their arms, and she can’t help but smile. Tonight is about the family that they haven’t been for so many years, about remembering what it used to be like when they were the only ones they ever had.

She glances at Luke and swallows her pang of regret. “We wouldn’t have made it any other way, you know,” she says, leaning against his side. “You, me, Alex, and Reggie—you squatting in my studio was fate.”

“Hey,” he says. “We were not squatting.”

She laughs. “Uh, please, you absolutely were,” she says. “I still have my reservation ticket somewhere.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “You still have the studio slip?”

“Yeah,” she says, her laughs quieting down. “It’s the day the Phantoms was born.”

He smiles at her. “Couldn’t have happened any other way, I guess.”

“No,” she says, meeting his gaze. “It was just…fate.” 

“Fate,” he repeats.

She holds his stare longer than she should, but he doesn’t look away and she can feel it again—that teetering feeling, the world leaning slightly off-kilter the way it does whenever they’re about to jump into something they’re not ready for. She takes a bracing breath and steadies herself with a quick squeeze of his arm. “You have your speech all ready?”

“I hate speeches,” he says.

She laughs. “Yeah, I know. I get too nervous to read my own handwriting. And you can’t even read your handwriting on a good day.”

“Hey,” he grumbles. “You’re supposed to be nice to me today.”

She flashes a grin at him, her earrings tinkling as she turns to face him. “Yeah?” she says. “Is that right?”

He smiles back at her, and she feels her smile widening, trying to match his. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re making the Hall of Fame today.”

“Yeah, we are.”

“Took you guys long enough,” Alex hoots, as she steps onto the carpet behind them.

Julie bends and waves them all forward. “Age before beauty.”

The boys all hoot and cackle, shuffling among themselves to figure out who should step out first. She fusses with her purse, with the flyaways that have crept loose, and takes a breath to fix herself into place.

She can’t say for sure, but she can feel him look back at her once right before he steps into the light.

She can’t say for sure, but she knows.

The ceremony goes quicker than she expects with all the pitfalls of any other awards show—not enough time to eat, too many people to meet, people she’s already met once or twice whose names she absolutely cannot remember, shaking hands and delivering thanks for congratulations until her mouth feels dry. But credit where it’s due—the ballroom looks amazing, glittering with industry execs and celebrities up and down the line. Even a few A-listers are here—old fans of the band, she guesses—looking as dazed as some of the fans in the balcony.

She meets Jonah in the ballroom and he looks perfect as usual, not a hair out of place, tailored tuxedo hanging perfectly off of his frame. He greets her with a concerned look and the graze of a kiss on the cheek, but tonight isn’t about her—it’s about them, and they’re everywhere. Old flyers and posters that she’d forgotten, photo shoots from a lifetime ago—eight thousand different Julies smile and pout and pose at her from all around the room.

“They’re opening an exhibit at the Museum for you guys,” Amy tells her, gesturing towards one of her old tour outfits—a leather jacket with a bright purple and ruby dahlia of Swarovski crystals on the back. She sucks in a breath at the sight, the memory of the tour coming back in flashes. It was the year the boys helped her commemorate her mom’s passing when they were on the road, the year they parked the tour bus at the Grand Canyon so they could see it on their way back to California. 

She takes a sip of her champagne glass and feels Amy’s hand settle on hers. “Careful,” Amy says. “You haven’t eaten anything today.”

“You know me,” Julie says.

Amy levels her with a knowing look. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

But it’s the photos of the boys that catch her off-guard—Alex moving through his various looks, Reggie thinner and leaner, photos of them from on stage, rocking out, sweating through their outfits, looking wild as they leapt into poses, jumped off of amps, riffed off of each other. There’s one of her and Luke from one of their early shows, her eyes bright as she leaned forward, tilting her mic stand towards him, his eyes level with hers. 

It’s impossible to deny how they looked at each other, impossible to miss the spark that the two of them had. 

Jonah comes up behind her, sliding an arm around her waist. “Hey,” he says.

She tries a smile. “Hey,” she says.

“You doing okay?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” she says.

“It’s a big part of your life,” he says, shrugging towards the display around the room. 

She lifts her purse. “I have my speech all ready, interviews all done,” she says. “We’ll get the award, do our speeches, play our set, and that’ll be that.”

Jonah tightens his arm around her. “Okay,” he says. “If you’re okay.”

She glances back at the display—the poster, the pinned tour t-shirt, the photos of them backstage, laughing and pranking each other. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s just…a lot to take in.”

  
Nini Vereen, the lead singer of Mortarboard, is the one who introduces them. She takes to the stage with a jade green sari, smiling as she steps in front of the mic. 

_When I was learning how to write music, I think I listened to Take It In Stride about eight million times, give or take. And like the rest of America, I learned just how easy it was to fall in love with Julie and the Phantoms. Their music has been written about everywhere, from COMPLEX to Tiger Beat, and it’s impossible to distill all of their talent into a simple sentence or paragraph. With their music, they’ve managed to create soundscapes of emotion that none of us have ever heard before, and touched us all with the stories that they wrote._

_I can tell you what Julie and the Phantoms means to me. I can tell you that the first time I listened to Julie Molina sing about trying to find her voice in the aftermath of personal loss, it spoke to me like nothing else I listened to had. I can tell you that the way that she learned how to build and scale her voice, the way they pushed how the world understood their sound, shaped me as an artist. I can tell you how they changed how I listened to music, and what I listened to, and how I wrote, but you’re not here for any of that._

_Who knew that when a band overstayed in a studio, we would all get to reap the benefits?_

_But honestly, Julie and the Phantoms is one of the rare blends of high musicianship and listenability that we all strive for in this business. When you listen to The Reckoning or to Polaris or to any of their albums, I’m always struck anew by how precise it is. Luke Patterson absolutely cleans up on guitar—the notes are pristine, the tone of the noise just right, everything perfect without being fussy. Reggie Peters on bass is a master-class in the kind of hooks that we all dream about, that tie a song together and add so much depth. Alex Mercer’s drum fills are always surprising and inventive and thrilling, from the famous improvs that we’ve all tried to copy to the album tracks. And then there’s Julie Molina._

_She’s looking at me right now, and I’m so nervous just saying this but Julie—Julie Molina is what inspired girls like me, and many others around the world, to try to pick up a mic and do this. Her voice has incredible range and power, and the way she thinks about music is next-level. Songwriters love working with her, lyricists love working with her, and saying she’s talented is like saying the Eiffel Tower is tall. It doesn’t give you a sense of the scale._

_One of the most powerful stories about the Phantoms is about how they came together—how Alex and Reggie and Luke helped Julie to find her voice and find her music after what must have been an incredible loss. And I think it speaks to the power of the band today. They have all helped us find our voice at one point or another, they’ve helped us to think about what that means, and their music has reached all of us and reminded us to use it. I was incredibly honored to be invited to deliver their introduction speech tonight because I don’t think there’s anything I could say that could give back to them what they’ve given all of us—the best kind of music, that touches us and fills us up and makes us all see the world in a different way. The kind of music that surprises you and reminds you that, while we’re all looking at the same octaves and notes and scales, some of us are building skyscrapers and some of us are building Lego forts._

_Like many other musicians out there, I would not be a singer, I would not be a songwriter, I would not be a musician if it hadn’t been for Julie and the Phantoms. And this is not to touch at all on who they are as people, on the social impact that they’ve had, the causes they’ve championed. And even though I know it will never, ever happen, I still sometimes pray at night for one last reunion tour. But, in the absence of that, I’m happy that they’re all still out there making music, and I’m truly honored to celebrate them and to induct them into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this evening._

They take to the stage en masse, smiling for the cameras as they make their way to the stage. Reggie, still the most prepared out of all of them, has his speech in hand, and he slides in front of the mic while the rest of them look around and laugh.

“Okay, first of all, thank you,” Reggie says, as the crowd roars again. “Thank you, thank you. We would not be Julie and the Phantoms without you. And now, I have to read a speech that I wrote in the car.”

The crowd gives a laugh, and Reggie’s already diving into it—talking about the bands they’ve learned from, the managers they’ve worked with, their families and friends.

She sways on the stage in her shoes, her palms already itching, because she hates having to read these speeches, hates having to remember all of the people that helped her on her way up through this journey. There’s never enough time and there’s always too many people to thank, and the only thing running through her mind is a constant electric current of nervous energy.

Luke touches his hand lightly to her wrist, and she glances at him, freezing on stage for a moment.

“Take your time,” he says. “It’s not going to last forever.”

She glances around the room and takes it all in—the sight of the crowds in the balcony, some of the musicians she’s most respected standing and cheering in the ballroom next to fans and execs and suits of all kinds. She takes a steadying breath, and Alex is already wheeling in front of the mic, doing his song and dance, kicking his feet while he talks about what an honor it is to be here. Willie is in the audience, waving furiously, and she can’t help but smile when she sees him. They’re always the happiest people in whatever room they’re in, and she’s always loved them—and envied them a little—for it.

The crowd keep cheering and Luke shoots her a look. “Want to go?” he says. “Want me to go?”

And she steps in front of the mic before she knows what she’s doing. The speech is in her purse, but she looks out at all of the faces and says, “I had a speech, but everyone knows how much I hate speeches and—I just want to say to all of you who have listened to our music over the years, who have come with us on this journey. There are far too many people to name and thank, and I will do so in a statement afterwards so that I can make sure I don’t forget anybody. So I will thank the big VIPs—to my family, my mom and my dad, and Carlos, tia Victoria, and Flynn, who is always going to be my slightly older, wiser sister. And to my other family”—she says, turning to the boys with a wave of the arm—“who have been on this roller coaster with me from the beginning, and who have seen me at my highest and my lowest. I can’t say everything that you mean to me, so I won’t try. Thank you.”

And then it’s Luke, shuffling to the mic, his hands in his pockets, looking wistful. He’s silent for a moment, the room falling to a confused hush of whispers as they wait for him to speak.

He looks out at the crowd, clearing his throat as he steps up to the mic. “Thank you all for coming,” he says. “And for coming to our shows, for supporting us over the years. I would not be any kind of musician without people who listened to my music. And I’m happy to have worked with these guys for over a decade because they’re the ones who understood what I was trying to do and made sure that we wrote it better and stronger. I learned so much from them over the years, and I think it’s no lie to say that we really became a family more than a band.”

Reggie comes up behind him and claps him twice on the back, cheering him on.

Luke rocks back and forth on his feet for a moment, glancing back at her—at them, clinging to one another and laughing at how insane it all feels—before he turns back to the crowd. “But I just want to say—there’s no Julie and the Phantoms without Julie Molina. And she is just beyond—more than a fantastic vocalist, an incredible songwriter, a groundbreaking musician—she is the heart of everything that we ever did. As a band, as entertainers—she held our vision and she kept us honest, and at the end of the day, there is no band—no music—without her. So, thank you to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, thank you to the boys, and thank you, as always, for everything, to Julie.”

Reggie and Alex turn to look at her, their faces blank with shock, and her cheeks warm.

“What the hell happened to you guys?” Alex whispers, and she nudges him with the point of her elbow.

He steps away from the mic, and they’re showered with a thunderous standing ovation. 

As he comes to stand by them, his arm sliding around Reggie’s back, flashbulbs firing from everywhere, she takes a deep breath and tries to think about the performance they still have ahead of them. She tries to focus on anything beside the words that he leveled at her feet, the thank you that was less a thank you than a—she doesn’t even know what—a coronation, a gesture, a plea? 

But it’s all in the past.

They’ve left it all in the past.

They’ve closed the door.

Except, when she turns to face the photographers on the other side of the room, she can still feel his eyes on her, tracking her out of the corner of his eye.

She can still feel everything.

  
She’s exhausted by the time they finish the ceremony and the post-awards press line, but she manages to fight her way to the dressing rooms. Hers, as usual, is private—the benefit of working with all boys—but Amy and Flynn are already inside waiting, making small talk and rifling through the rack of stage outfits her stylist brought for her to consider.

They drop their voices to a whisper as soon as she’s through the door, which makes her think maybe she was what they were talking about. But they turn to her with a smile, and she can’t fight the feeling of relief that runs through her as soon as she sees her best friend. 

Flynn’s always been part of her pre-show run, whenever they can actually swing it. It reminds her of their old club days, Flynn doing her make-up in the back of the band van parked outside a strip mall, the boys taking turns changing inside a Starbucks bathroom. 

Amy takes one look at her and says, “I think you should go with the fourth outfit, but do what you want.”

She nods.

“Did you see Jonah in the crowd?” Amy says. “He loves it. The whole show.”

“Yeah,” Julie says, scrubbing at her eyes with her hand, “We’re going to do something after, I think.”

Amy’s smile is too wide. “Great!” she chirps. “I’ll leave you to get to it, then. Great speech, as usual.” She comes around and gives Julie a quick hug, two pats on the back to let her know a job well done.

She gives a small smile. “Thanks, Ames.”

“Break a leg,” Amy says. “Have a good set, and I’ll connect with you after.”

Flynn’s quiet while they talk, gamely pushing through the outfits on the rack, but Julie can tell she’s poised to explode. She’s gotten better at hiding her feelings over the years, but somewhere inside her is still the excitable, jumpy girl that she first met who could never do anything but say the first thing that was on her mind.

As soon as the door closes behind Amy, Flynn turns to her with wide eyes and an open mouth, asking, “So?” 

Julie groans, stepping out of her shoes and stretching her feet, fumbling for the zipper on her jumpsuit. “Can you help me out of this thing?”

Flynn tosses her handbag on the floor and struts over, gesturing for Julie to turn around. “So you’re just not going to tell me about what’s going on?” she says, brushing Julie’s hair out of the way.

She hears the zipper before she feels it, and then she’s peeling out of the tight jumpsuit with a sigh. “You know that I have to be on stage in forty minutes, right?”

“Yeah,” Flynn says, “So get to it.”

“Going on with what?” she says.

Flynn scoffs, clicking her tongue. “With what, you ask me,” she says, narrating to nobody. “What do you think, genius? How about the speech that somebody gave on stage? How about you telling me that there was no chance of anything happening? How about you not returning my calls?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls. There’s a lot going on.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Flynn says.

Julie rolls her eyes, tossing the jumpsuit at Flynn as she heads toward the clothing rack. “Can you hang that back up for me?” 

Pushing through the options on the rack, Julie sucks her teeth. She’s always preferred to be comfortable on stage rather than glam—easier to jump around and dance when she feels like she isn’t being squeezed through a toothpaste tube—especially during the Phantoms days, but the options lean more towards being photographed than dancing.

Flynn sighs and walks towards her, nudging her out of the way with a hip. “You have that sad look on your face like when you killed your goldfish. Let a professional handle this.”

“I do not,” Julie says. “And, I’m sorry, who is supposed to be the professional here?”

There’s a click of hangers, and then Flynn hands her some separates—a pair of cut-off denim shorts, a glittering body suit, and a sweatshirt crop top. 

“Trust me on this,” Flynn says, giving her a quick scanning eye. “Yeah. That’s going to be fire.”

Julie snorts a laugh. 

“And then we just have to figure out your hair,” Flynn says. “So you don’t have any excuse for not telling me what the fuck is going on with you and Mr. Ghosted-You-Around-the-World.”

She laughs in spite of herself. Julie’s never been the kind of person to hold grudges for long, but Flynn’s always been happy to hold them for her. She respects it for what it is, a sign of how deep their friendship goes, how much love there is between the two of them. And she remembers how satisfying it was to see the range and intensity of Flynn’s rage when she couldn’t find any of it for herself, when she felt so spent and empty that all she had left, all that he hadn’t taken from her, was her exhaustion.

Julie’s halfway into the body suit, mumbling for Flynn to help button her into it, when she says, “You have to promise me that you’re not going to have a stroke.”

“Lord,” Flynn says, patting her once on the back once the buttons are done. “Okay. What is it?”

Julie turns, climbing into the cut-offs. “We slept together.”

Flynn’s eyes go huge, her head jutting forward as she levels her with a stare. “Sorry, you what?” she says. “It sounded like…”

“Girl, you know exactly what I said,” Julie says, pulling on the crop top. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she lets out a little whistle. Flynn’s always had an eye for fashion that sometimes Julie thinks it’s a tragedy that she ended up working in publicity instead. “This looks amazing.”

Flynn clicks her tongue. “Shoot, you sound surprised,” she says. “Now sit down and we’ll figure out what to do with your hair.”

“Toss me those high-tops too,” she says.

The shoes clatter in a pile down by her feet, and she heads over to the rack and rummages for a pair of socks.

“Now, excuse me, can we get back to the task at hand here?” Flynn says. “And then you got to get in that chair so we can do your hair.”

Julie scoffs, shoving her feet into the shoes quickly before heading over towards the chair. “Don’t do too much with the hair, Flynn,” she says. “Don’t get crazy.”

Flynn levels her a stare in the mirror. “Please,” she says. “When have I ever?”

“Now, you know…”

“Shut up,” Flynn says. “So what exactly motivated you to cross your great unspeakable divide?”

Julie rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I was trying to do it,” she says. “He wrote a song for the show tonight, and we’re going to perform it. But it had to be rewritten.”

Flynn’s hands are soothing as they smooth and gather her hair, working it into a high ponytail. “So how do you get from A to B here? I’m confused.”

“I don’t know,” Julie says. “We were working together and it felt like old times, and we started talking.” At Flynn’s look, she adds, “Not like that. We were trying to figure out if we could be friends again.”

Flynn rolls her eyes. “Y’all were never friends. Never.”

“Anyways,” she says, as Flynn smooths down the hair on the crown of her head, “We started talking about what happened, trying to get like—I don’t know—closure or something, you know? We never had it.”

“Mmhmm,” Flynn says, wrapping a scrunchie around her ponytail. “You got mousse somewhere?”

Julie gestures towards one of the plastic containers lying in a heap in the corner. 

“So,” Flynn says, rattling through the drawer. “Closure?”

“And then the picture came out, and he came to talk to me about it, and…it happened.”

“Things always just happen with the two of you,” Flynn says, squirting mousse into her hands and sliding it through her hair. “You know that? It’s like a switch flips or something.”

Julie sighs. “You going to yell at me now or what?”

“So? What does this mean? You back together or what?”

She shakes her head. “It didn’t mean anything,” she says. “It was like—we knew that we weren’t going to see each other or play together again. And maybe we can be friends after, maybe not, but—it was like…”

“What, one last time for the road?” Flynn scoffs.

“Yeah,” Julie laughs. “I guess.”

Flynn snaps her fingers. “Where’s your make-up bag?”

She gestures vaguely towards the pile in the corner. “Buried in there somewhere, probably,” she says. 

“Girl, you know you’re my sister and I love you,” Flynn opens, tossing her way through the pile of stuff in the corner. “But if you think you closed a door, what you really did was you went and opened a window.”

She laughs. “Come on!” 

And then there’s a clatter of palettes opening, brushes rustling out of a bag. “I’m serious,” Flynn says. “That man has some kind of hold on you that I will never be able to understand.”

“You make him sound like he has magical powers.”

Flynn sucks her teeth. “I mean, after all that he put you through, after all of the crying and the heartbreak—that man dragged your name in the mud for like a year—and you want to get back with him?”

Julie studies her reflection in the mirror, poking at the tip of her ponytail. “No,” she says. “No. I don’t know. It’s—we had a thing, and now it’s over. It’s like—it’s what we needed—what it took—to close that chapter out.”

Flynn hums a tone of disbelief. “If you say so.”

And then she’s pulling the chair to the side and ordering Julie to close her eyes. There’s a click and clatter of palettes against the dressing room vanity, and then something cool sliding across her eyelids.

The best shows—her favorite shows—have always been the one where Flynn’s been able to make it. All these years, and after all their life changes, and she still feels like she’s thirteen and sitting in her bedroom for their first sleepover, talking through the night until they were falling asleep at breakfast the next morning. Flynn’s always been able to make her feel like part of her life is normal, untouched by the craziness of the business, and she’s come with her the whole way.

Their dressing room traditions are as much a part of her other pre-show routines as anything else, Julie thinks. And in the first shows after the split, there was nothing that could replace how much Flynn worked to get her to smile, to laugh, to feel like she was doing something brave and not just trying to replace the boys with something else because she couldn’t stand to work with them anymore.

Flynn’s always been there. A secret part of the band, no matter what band she’s in.

“Look,” Flynn says, fluttering a brush against her lash line. “All I’m saying is for you to be careful.”

“Don’t worry, mom,” Julie jokes. “We used protection.”

Flynn pushes at her shoulder. “I’m serious,” she says. “Maybe things have changed, maybe he’s changed—whatever, I don’t know. But I know that he left my best girl in a bad way and didn’t do anything about it. And I know that he hasn’t moved on, no matter what he’s telling you. That man did not get up on stage and give that speech because he’s ready to let you go.”

She sighs. “How can I know if he changed or not?” Julie says. “I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“You’re lying to yourself and you know it,” Flynn says. “But that’s what makes him so dangerous. Don’t confuse what already happened with what’s happening now. That’s all I’m saying.”

A brush scratches at her cheek. “Yeah,” she says.

“And honestly, Jules,” Flynn says, moving to brush the other cheek. “Can you tell me that you’ve moved on too? Like, look me in the eye and tell me that, because I don’t think you have either.”

Julie opens her eyes and glances at Flynn.

“Be honest with yourself,” Flynn says, handing her a stick of lipstick. “That’s the only way you can keep from getting hurt.”

Flynn’s a master worker, her lids done in warm earth tones, glittering and subtle. The lipstick in her hand is a deep plum.

“Hey,” Julie says, climbing out of her seat. “Double trouble?”

Flynn smiles and throws her arms around Julie in a hug. “You know it.”

She’s always loved that hour before a show starts when they’re just trying to get in the right headspace to play the set. Back when they used to tour together, they built it out into a whole day almost—eating breakfast together, jamming out in their green room or in the dressing room before they would split up to change. And right before they took to the stage, they would collapse into a circle, jumping together and singing _I Want to Dance with Somebody_ in harmony until they hit the scream of the chorus.

Since she’s gone solo, it’s scaled back a bit—less of the screaming, less of the jumping, and more time to gather herself before the nonstop energy of a show—but she still loves that time with her dancers, with her backup singers, to come together and share energy before they take to the stage.

She likes to think it’s a time to separate who she is from who she’s going to be on stage, but some days it’s enough just to sit in front of the mirror, put on her face, and remember the girl she used to be, dreaming of the chance to go and do something like this.

He used to tell her that they were the luckiest people in the world. Sprawled across the couch in her dressing room in his jeans and cutoff t-shirt, watching her lazily out of half-opened eyes as she threw together an outfit for the show. _Isn’t it killer that we get to do what we love every day of our lives with who we love?_

She used to laugh at that, or ball up one of her t-shirts and throw it in his direction. That’s the thing about Luke: no one ever really knew how sentimental he was, how soft he got whenever the cameras were off.

And they had their rituals too. After she got dressed and put on her make-up for the show, they’d dance together in his dressing room or hers, no music on, just synchronizing their breathing and their time until it felt like they were moving together, thinking together, that they had closed the last possible distance between them.

Before every show, he’d kiss the inside of her wrist and squeeze her hands and tell her to kill it. 

Before every show, he’d press his forehead to hers and nag her about something from sound check or rehearsal. _Don’t forget we changed the pick-up before the bridge. Don’t miss your cue when Reggie heads into the key change._

And each time, she would kiss him in answer and tell him to fucking relax as he laughed and blotted her lipstick off with cocktail napkins.

(Even at their last show, even when they were worn down to the bone and tired of pretending that things were okay, he tried to do it. 

He knocked on her dressing room door and waited. He took her hands in his own and squeezed them, and tried to tell her that she was going to kill it, that they were going to get out on stage and give the most incredible show that their fans could remember.

But he forgot the most important part, she thinks.

He forgot to tell her what she might have missed, forgot to tell her the problems that she kept hitting in rehearsal. Not that she would have listened to him anyway, but it still mattered then, she thought, to have the reminder that he was still there, still listening.

At their last show, when the four of them huddled together for the last time, their arms resting around one another, they pressed their foreheads together and took a collective breath, syncing up their breathing, their energy. What she remembers most of all is how tired they seemed, how none of them seemed to want to be there.

What she remembers is Alex clapping his hand against her shoulder twice and them walking out of the huddle towards the stage in silence.

What she remembers is how terrified she felt, stepping out on stage and feeling, for the first time, absolutely alone.)

Before the show, they meet in the green room and kick it off with a toast to the Phantoms. It’s like it hasn’t been in years—red solo cups, two shots apiece, soda sweet against her mouth—but she takes it, the warmth from the alcohol burning up through her chest right away.

Alex claps his hands twice, hooting a cheer to no one.

She laughs, and throws an arm over Alex’s shoulder and another over Reggie’s.

“What are we doing?” Alex says. “What are you doing?”

“Huddle!” she says. “Huddle, huddle, huddle.”

Reggie drags Luke into the circle and then they’re hopping on their feet, shuffling awkwardly in a circle as they try to avoid knocking into any of the furniture.

“This is it, guys,” she says. “Last circle ever.”

“You make it sound like we’re going to get taken out back and shot when this is over,” Alex says.

“Whoa, dude,” Reggie says, laughing. “Dark.”

They’re all taller than she is and as they start getting into it, she finds herself lifted a little higher off her feet, laughing so hard that she can barely keep a straight face. There’s a weight that’s missing, she thinks, that’s always lurking in her memories of being with the band. She’s forgotten how much fun it can be just hanging out with them, how much joy they used to have spending time together and jamming out.

She leads into the chorus of _I Want to Dance with Somebody_ without warning, and Alex pulls her out of the circle, lifting her up off the floor as she squeals, kicking her legs for a place to stand.

“Lead in, Julie,” he crows.

She laughs so hard she can’t breathe.

Across the room, Luke and Reggie have their hands on each other’s shoulders, jumping up and down and hollering nonsense.

For the first time in a long while, she feels like they might be okay again.

She feels like she’s home.

They take to the stage with a boom of applause, all of them a little sheepish as they take their places on stage. Reggie slings the strap of his bass over his shoulder and steps up to the mic with a shy laugh. “Hi, I’m Reggie,” he says, as the crowd hoots, “And we’re Julie and the Phantoms.”

They play their way through their set, and she can’t help but lose herself in it—the feeling of old times, of jamming out on stage with her best friends, of a crowd hanging on their every move, their every joke, their next riff or run. If she’s being honest, it’s been a long time since she’s had fun through a show that she forgets how easy it can be, how seamless to lose herself in the play of it.

Luke’s on rare form, bantering with the crowd in between songs in a way that she hasn’t heard from him in years, Alex improvising fills more complex than anything they ever did. It’s a sight into a world she hasn’t thought about—what they would be like if they had stuck through it, if they were still playing together. But for now, it’s easy to follow their lead, to play along and sing through her part and surprise herself with rediscovering parts of songs she’s lived with for years.

The crowd are on their feet, howling and dancing along as Reggie and Luke riff through the end of their song. He grins at her, stooped over as he changes out his guitar, and she takes a seat at the keyboard, smiling out at the crowd.

“This one is an old favorite,” she whispers into the mic, jittery with a laugh as the crowd whistles and hoots.

As she starts into Edge of Great, Luke inches forward from his position on the stage, nodding at her as she sings through the intro. “Running from the past, tripping on the now,” she sings, turning to glance at him.

He grins, toeing around the wires as he comes to hover behind her shoulder, mouthing the words in time with her singing.

“What is lost can be found, it’s obvious,” she sings. “And like a rubber ball, we come bouncing back…”

Underneath her playing, she can hear the quiet rumble of his voice underneath hers, grounding in its harmony. 

“We all got a second act inside of us…”

Alex pounds the drums hard, and then the guitars come in, buzzing and churning with noise.

She jumps up from the keyboard and dances towards center stage as she sings the chorus, Reggie hyping her up as she jumps and twirls. The crowd is already on its feet, clapping and singing along, as the boys come in to back her up.

Luke crosses behind her towards the left side of the stage, turning to face her as he plays into his verse. She makes the mistake of looking up at him as she takes her position at the mic, his gaze steady on her. Warmth runs along the base of her spine, and she suppresses a shiver as he presses his mouth to the mic.

His voice is lush and warm as he starts. “Now we all make mistakes,” he sings, holding her gaze, “but they’re just stepping stones…”

She sings a harmony line under his lead, soft and airy, as he drifts from his mic towards hers.

“To take us where we want to go, it’s never straight, no…”

There’s not enough space for the two of them to stand like this, and definitely not with the guitar, but he angles himself to play as she reaches for the mic stand and swivels it towards the direction of his mouth. 

He leans in close, his breath warm against her fingers, but he doesn’t look away. Standing there, she feels it again—the rest of the world disappearing under the lights, the noise of the crowd fading away, until it seems like it’s just the two of them, like he’s singing something just for her, like they’re the only people that matter. 

A weight drops in her stomach, knocking the air out of her, as he blinks up at her and sings into the next lines. “Sometimes we gotta lean,” he croons, soft and aching, as she joins in with her harmony, “Lean on someone else…”

She laughs, a little breathless, into the next line: “To get a little help…”

And when he flashes a smile at her, hitting their stride into the build-up towards the chorus, she can’t help but smile back. “Until we find our way…”

Pulling the mic from the stand, she dances back around the keyboard towards the back of the stage as she wails the chorus. She can hear the wire drag as he follows her, the guitar chords bright and clean as he comes closer.

And when they cross out of the bridge, her voice going breathy and high, he steps into center stage and into her space, mouthing the lyrics with her. She grins at him, a flutter of nerves in her belly, but he doesn’t seem fazed. He tilts his head, a small smirk pulling at his lips, as he watches her and plays along.

She slows the phrase down. “I believe that we’re just one dream,” she sings, as he echoes the part on guitar.

With a wide grin, he turns and faces the crowd then, playing through his riff as he leans his weight to rest against her. He’s solid and sweaty, his shoulder bumping against hers as he tries to find his balance.

“Away from what we’re meant to be,” she sings, through a laugh, “That we’re standing on the edge of great…”

And when he misses his cue to come back in on the chorus, a beat and a half late, no one in the crowd seems to notice.

When they come out for their final song, the lights slide warm and low, the crowd clapping in time to the music for their return. Luke slings the strap of an acoustic over his head, his fingers giving the strings a few testing pulls. She recognizes the streak of wood detail around the body, she realizes, even though she hasn’t seen it in years.

She remembers the day they went to pick it out, how excited he was running around the showroom and the factory, watching the craftsmen shave down the wood by hand to get the perfect shape.

“We have a new one for you tonight,” Luke says, voice gruff at the edges from the set, “A new Julie and the Phantoms song to celebrate—commemorate—this glorious occasion.” His laugh is rickety and quiet as he strums a chord.

Alex takes a seat behind the kit, nodding at her, and Reggie shakes the neck of his bass, tongue poking out of his mouth as he grins at the crowd. She covers her mouth with her hand, laughing, as she steps up towards the mic. But Luke shakes his head, nodding at her towards center stage, towards where he is.

“Stay with me,” he whispers to her, leaning away from the mic.

She takes a sharp breath, her cheeks pinching from how much she’s smiled today, and she nods, a little uncertain. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

He strums the opening to the song a little country, picking the melody and the rhythm line with his fingers. “Follow me, okay?” he whispers.

She feels a familiar jolt of nerves buzzing along her spine, the kind that comes with performing anything for the first time in front of a crowd. She holds his gaze, watching him for his cues as he plays through the extended intro. And when he leans in close towards the mic, he glances towards her as he starts singing, his voice smooth and mournful.

_there’s a certain glow breaking out on the water_   
_coming after the storm that shook it all down_

She joins in on the next two lines, her soprano crisp and delicate, backed by the rustle of the tambourine. 

_you were hoping for a different answer_   
_waiting for the searchlight to cut through the sound_

As they head into the pre-chorus, Reggie comes in on the bass, a steady humming hook that runs current through the softness of the acoustic guitar.

Luke watches her as they sing together, their voices building on top of one another, blending into an even harmony.

_taking on water, trying even harder_   
_steady the course but losing the way_

She rocks back on her heels, staggering backward a few steps. As he picks through the arpeggios, she walks up behind him, her hands sliding across the tops of his shoulders, as she leans in to sing the next lines with him.

_you took the mainsail, climbed like a fire_   
_the beacon that almost made me stay_

When they hit the chorus, he turns to look at her, his eyes bright and curious, mouth near enough to graze.

_and i’m climbing the mainsail now trying to find you_   
_sparking an ember glowing into the night_   
_shedding all of the shadow crossing behind me_   
_for that beacon that once took hold of my life_

She turns back towards the crowd, starting to head towards the keyboard for the start of the second verse when he bumps her with his shoulder, shifting to make room for her at his mic. She steps in close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him and leans in to sing. 

“Oh, won’t you hang a beacon,” she sings, “On your mainsail tonight…”

As she slides onto the keyboard bench, playing into the second verse, he walks up from his mic towards where she’s sitting. 

She laughs, missing a note as she watches him sidle up towards her.

Reggie watches them out of the corner of his eye, a smile pulling at his mouth as he plucks at the bass, and she shrugs, singing through the second verse. Luke keeps playing the support underneath her piano as she vocalizes into the mic. 

And when they finally reach the bridge, she’s standing right beside him center stage, watching him more than she’s watching the crowd. The crowd are humming, phones out to record them, but all she can think about is how warm her skin feels, how much she can feel the energy of the crowd, the energy of the boys, all around her.

Luke turns to her with a soft smile, his toe kicking hers as he leans towards her, singing perpendicular to the mic. “And would you say you can see the beach from here…”

“Beach from here,” she harmonizes.

“Cause I’ve been carried along too long by the tide…”

She inches closer, watching as he pulls the neck of the guitar to clear more room for her to stand.

When they lean in to sing the next lines together, she can’t pull her attention from how he’s looking at her, dizzy with the nearness of him.

“And there ain’t no going back when the road is clear,” they sing. “And I’m sorry for leaving it all behind…”

He slides the guitar to the side, closing the distance between them as they finish the bridge a cappella, backed by nothing but the echo of the bass and the soft scratch of Alex’s drum brush. 

“Can’t I carry the beacon for us both now,” they sing. “Won’t you watch me try to keep it alive? Won’t you trust me to climb right up on the mainsail? Won’t you watch me set it alight? Just you watch me bring it back to life…”

And then, he’s jerking the guitar back into place, strumming the chords to anchor them through the final chorus.

She passes behind him, trailing her hand against his back as she crosses back towards the piano.

When she plays them through the last notes of the song, she takes one last deep breath before settling in the final chord. Like jumping into the water from high, high up, she thinks, as she waits for them to hit the water, for the crowd to catch them when they’re done.

Luke turns his back to the crowd, glancing around at the three of them with a soft shout, and then, they’re exploding into motion, crashing together down center stage. They hold each other tightly, laughing, as the crowd erupts into applause.

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until Alex squeezes her tighter, Reggie cooing her name against her ear.

Luke doesn’t say anything at all.

After the show, she’s in her dressing room, stripping off the make-up and getting ready to change back into her regular clothes when there’s a knock at the door. Amy has her set for a busy night of after-parties and networking events with industry execs, some strategic paparazzi photos with Jonah in the midnight hours, and she’s exhausted thinking about the flight back to California the next morning. “I’ll be right out,” she calls.

But the door opens and shuts, and when she turns, it’s Luke, leaning against the doorway, still in his outfit from the gig.

“Hey,” she says, surprised. “I didn’t think it was you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

She lifts a cotton round to show him. “You can stay,” she says. “I’m just taking off my make-up. What’s up?”

He swipes his hands against his jeans and walks towards the vanity. “Good show,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow and wipes off another arc of make-up from her forehead. “You came to tell me good show?” 

“No,” he says.

“Right.”

He’s quiet for a minute as he comes up behind her, his hands brushing lightly against her shoulders. In the vanity mirror, she can see his body up to the base of his neck. His fingers are fidgeting, near enough to her arms that she can almost feel the ghost of his touch.

“Luke, I swear,” she says. “Whatever it is that you have on your mind, just say it. Amy or Flynn’s going to be in here any second to drag me out.”

He sucks in a breath, his hands gripping the back of her chair. “Just…don’t get up.”

She blinks at her reflection. “Okay,” she says. “Why?”

“Do you remember,” he says, “that night that I called you from Jamaica?”

She drops the make-up remover back against the vanity, pushing back against the seat, but his hands brace against it, holding it in place. “Why do you want to talk about Jamaica?”

“Answer the question. Do you remember?”

She gives a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I remember one of the worst nights of my life. Why?”

“You told me that I was putting myself first because I didn’t try to talk to you guys before I made a choice,” he says. “You told me that, if I cared, I would have said something.”

“Yeah,” she says, flatly. “I remember.”

His hands flutter around the back of the chair, the muscles in his arms tensing. “What if I want to say something?”

Her stomach rises into her throat, her chest suddenly tight. She spins in her seat to face him, and he’s there, his hands gripped around the chair, his eyes locked to the wall. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she says, rising off of the chair.

“You told me you wouldn’t get up,” he says.

“Fuck that, and look at me,” she says. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He runs a hand through his hair and meets her gaze. “Julie, I—I don’t want to do this again.”

His eyes are wide and nervous, his weight shifting back and forth as he tries to hold her gaze. She reaches for the edge of the vanity table, her knuckles whitening as she grips it for balance. For strength. For anything.

“I don’t want to go back to the last five years, I don’t want to forget that this happened, I don’t…want closure. Nothing has changed for me. Nothing.”

She takes in a shallow breath, the room spinning slightly on its axis. “You can’t do this,” she gasps.

He’s barely able to look at her, his eyes darting around the room for anything to steady him. “It was the biggest mistake of my life, and if you don’t think that I spent every day of the last five years thinking about it, reliving it—but I can’t go back to—to what it was before. I can’t.”

Her chest feels heavy and tight, the tears rising up in her eyes. When she turns to look at him, heat rises up in her throat. “Luke, what are you asking?” she rasps. “What are you asking me right now?”

He steps towards her, catching her wrists in his hands. There are still cotton rounds in her hands, make-up remover still on the outside of her face, and she starts shaking, tears trailing down her cheeks as he pulls her into his arms and holds her. His arms are heavy against her shoulders, but he’s solid and he’s there, her Luke, whispering things she can’t make out against the crown of her head.

“I can’t do anything about what happened,” he says, pulling back to look at her. “But if this is it, if this is the last time I can see you and talk to you, you have to know—”

She sniffles, and he brushes the tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he says. 

She closes her eyes, steeling herself against whatever’s coming next. 

“You’re the only girl that matters, Jules,” he whispers. “You always were.”

Tears are thick on her lashes when she opens her eyes to look at him, her heart aching in her chest. “You hurt me,” she cries, “so badly.”

“I know,” he says. “I know. And I don’t have any excuse. I know that. But there’s no going back for me. There never was.”

She pulls her hands free and crosses her arms over her chest, biting her lip to try to pull herself together as she looks at him. “Say it,” she says, voice thick with tears. “Say whatever it is that you came here to say.”

“I know you’re leaving in the morning. I know that this is your last night here, and I know that this is”—he punctuates it with a quiet laugh—“probably the worst timing in the world, but I…needed you to know.” He reaches to cup her face in his hand, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. There’s another quiet laugh, too soft to be bitter, when he says, “I’m still in love with you. I never stopped. I don’t think I could.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“And I just—I needed you to know. And I know it sounds crazy, but things are different now. We’re working on different things, the band is over, and we’re—we have a chance now. I think we have a chance now.”

When she glances up, he’s looking at her, nearly pleading.

“I know it’s your last night,” he says. “But I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you go without saying anything. Not this time. Not—not after everything.”

She reaches for a tissue from the vanity and wipes at her eyes, checking her reflection in the mirror. “I have interviews after this,” she says.

"I wanted to tell you," he says. "Before...but it—I couldn't quite get the words out that night."

She grunts softly, dabbing at her eyes.

“The ball’s in your court,” he says, and then he’s sliding a business card onto the vanity table, their fingers nearly brushing as she drags it towards her. It’s a card for the hotel that he’s staying at, his messy handwriting covering the phone number of the hotel with four digits. “I know this is a lot. And you might not even—I know that you’re in a different place in your life too. And if you’re done, then you’re done. But I couldn’t let you go without telling you.”

She glances at the card before turning to face him. Her eyes feel swollen and tender, and all she wants to do is turn out the lights and catch her breath. His hand settles on her shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers. “For what it’s worth. For any of it.”

“Yeah,” she says. “And the card?”

“If you’re not done,” he says, “Just…let me know.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, so she stands at the vanity and turns towards him. “Luke?”

“Yeah?”

She crosses towards him and takes his hands, and they stand there, swaying in silence for a beat. He takes a steadying breath as he looks at her, like he’s readying himself for some kind of heartbreak, and she feels a fresh ache in her chest at the thought. She steps into his space, rising up on her toes to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Her mouth lingers against his skin for a second too long, but she pulls away and looks at him, her thumb idly brushing away the lipstick print she’s left behind. “Bye,” she whispers.

He cups her chin in his hand, his thumb grazing against her jawline. He doesn’t say anything, just takes an extra moment to look at her.

She isn’t ready to face it, she thinks. Any of it. Him being back in her life, him being out of it. But the knife edge that they’ve balanced on the entire time they’ve been here is already falling, clattering its way to the ground, and neither of them know which way it’ll land.

Maybe that’s just how it goes.

One minute, he’s there, his hand warm against her face, promising her the world, and the next, he’s gone. 

(Jonah’s the one who meets her and travels with her to the afterparties.

She meets dozens of people, shakes countless hands, and can’t remember a single thing.

All she can remember is the stricken look on Luke’s face, the warmth of his hand against her face, the edge in his voice.

All she can think about is the business card weighing down her wallet, her purse, with everything that it could mean.)

She wishes that it was as simple as he believes.

Just because it’s been years and his feelings have stayed the same doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea. (Just because her feelings have stayed the same doesn’t make it a good idea either.) The two of them have known each other too long, have seen what they’re like at their worst, and she knows that he wants her to believe that things are different now, that they’ve grown and changed and gotten past all of their baggage.

But the problem with the two of them was never the band. It was never anything more than who they were—than the fact that he wanted to put himself above thinking about anyone else, the fact that she loved him so much that she lost part of herself when he disappeared, the fact that she’s never been able to think of him without feeling an echo of that first heartbreak.

She wants to believe that it’s simple, that it’s as easy as calling him back, as showing up at his hotel and telling him exactly how she feels. But she’s never been one to jump into things the way that he has. She’s the kind to make lists, to think about why she’s doing something before she starts, to make arrangements and plans.

If she’s being honest, she had those plans for the two of them once, too. She dreamt of an apartment or a house that they would keep, plants by the windowsill, the kitchen a warm gold and bright, full of laughter and friends and love. She dreamt once of their house being full of music, of sitting and playing at the piano like her mom once did with her. She dreamt of him as a partner, always there in her bed, in her kitchen, in her home. She dreamt of them as always having a place. But there’s planning, and then there’s the reality.

She wants to think that it’s as simple as flipping a switch, that the time he’s had to think about what he wants means that it’s going to be different this time around. But he doesn’t know how hard it was for her the first time, how scared she is of getting hurt again, of giving him the power to shatter her all over again. He doesn’t know how long it took for her to build herself back together.

She knows what Flynn would say, what Amy would say, what Carlos would say.

But she also knows what it’s like to lose someone important and never have them in your life again. She also knows what it means to live without the light of a love that nourishes.

She wishes it could be as easy as saying that she’s never stopped loving him either.

She wishes she could say it was an easy choice.

She’s scheduled on a 4AM flight back to Los Angeles, touch-down in California by 5 to make the first of the morning show appearances.

She packs her bags, leaves a tip for housekeeping, and stares at the business card on the dresser.

With one last glance at the clock, she takes her purse and heads out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of this is going to be a monster. Get ready.
> 
>  _I Want to Dance with Somebody_ is by Whitney Houston.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for coming on this ride with me. I did not anticipate this to get as long as it did. If you liked it, please let me know. I read & have appreciated every comment.
> 
> My god, I tried, but if there are any typos I missed, it's all on me.
> 
> Content warning escalation from last chapter applies here too. Spiciness ahead.

**2040, VULTURE**

  
_After twenty years, a dozen albums, and countless Grammy Award nominations, Julie Molina is going back to the drawing board—and looking to rediscover herself in the process._

_In an industry full of workaholics and heavy competition, Molina has long been an overachiever, churning out gold and platinum albums like clockwork, headlining international tours, and using her off-time to shoot film and TV appearances or to launch fashion or housewares lines instead of taking a break. When I sit down with the star at her house, she’s in the midst of packing, handing me rolls of packing tape and putting me to work while we chat._

_For the first time in a long time, if not for the first time in her life, Molina stares down a blank page. So what’s next?_

_She laughs. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?”_

_It’s been a long (and, some might say, difficult) year for the star. Following the induction of her former band,_ Julie and the Phantoms, _into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, she went through a protracted break-up, was plagued by rumors of a rekindled affair with a certain former bandmate, went on the road, went back to the studio, and wrote, recorded, and released this year’s surprise album,_ Let Up on the Comedown.

_The album represented a significant departure from her last few and it isn’t difficult to see why. For the first time in decades, her former bandmates Alex Mercer, Reggie Peters, and, yes, even Luke Patterson, are listed as co-writers on the album, and their influence, though muted, comes through loud and clear. Molina’s voice and vision still shines clearly on the album’s thirteen tracks, if filtered through minimalist production and a more subdued lyrical style. For an established artist of her caliber and longevity, the album still manages to surprise and stun, even if some of the risks she takes fall flat.  
_

_Molina tapes up another box and shrugs. “I like to shake people out of their expectations for me a little bit,” she says._

_Over a long and historied career, she’s done just that, freely experimenting with genres while remaining grounded in the strengths and hallmarks of her writing and her voice. It’s part of what’s made her an inescapable part of the zeitgeist, a defining moment in our shared cultural legacy._

_She gives me one of those trademark Julie Molina expressions, eyebrows raised in disbelief, accompanied with a bright smile and a ringing laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she says. “I work hard at what I do, but I’m not, like, Mozart or anything.”_

_No disrespect to Wolfgang Amadeus, but her fans (and a sizable share of pop critics) would disagree. Her music, championed for its intricate melodies, lyrical dexterity, and generic versatility, gained a different kind of reputation with her fans, who celebrated her emotional openness about topics like grief and heartbreak, forgiveness and healing. For the most zealous of fans, who call themselves her_ mariposas, _Molina's music and life invite a near religious devotion, and they often seek to support her as her music has supported them._

_“If it wasn’t for them, I don’t know that I would have had the awareness to realize that I needed this,” she says._

_“A break?”_

_“Rest,” she says. “I’ve always thought of myself as unstoppable, and any time I could, I would just throw myself back into it and try to work through it. But they look out for me more than I do sometimes.”_

_So what made this time different?_

_“Getting older, I guess,” she laughs, after a minute. “I’ve always done things one way—record, go on tour, come back, throw myself back into writing, rinse, repeat—that I wanted to see what happened if I changed it.”_

_Molina’s remained very quiet about her plans for the break, choosing only to refer to a statement released by her manager that this is by no means a retirement. But fans around the world are chomping at the bit, anxious to keep track of what she’s doing, anxious about what this means for her work in the future, and looking for answers. Molina herself seems much more relaxed than the last time we spoke about a year and a half ago, freed of the constraints of her schedule and of the artistic demands she placed on herself._

_“Writing with friends has really given me insight into my process,” she says, “About how I liked to work and what needed to change, the gains and the costs. And it’s something that I’m still working on. I'm a work in progress, you know? Nothing is static in this world, not my music, not my writing, and not me.”_

_The changes have mostly been good. Her writing partners and old friends, Peters and Mercer, previously of the_ Phantoms _, now currently of_ Sunset Curve _, attest to her single-minded focus. “Julie’s the kind of person where, if you don’t pull her away and remind her that the sun still rises and sets even if she doesn’t figure out the chord progression, she’ll never leave,” Mercer says, laughing. “You have to physically remove her from the studio sometimes, or she’ll die there.”_

_When I ask him about her recent decision to take a break from writing and re-recording, he speaks in carefully clipped terms. “You have to understand how long she’s been doing this,” he says. “She’s like all of us—a creature of habit. And I think she’s learning how to set new limits for herself, how to think about who she is apart from the music. She isn’t sixteen anymore, you know what I mean? None of us are.”_

_Have they been part of that evaluation process?_

_Peters interjects, “It’s not really our business to talk about what’s going on with how she’s thinking about her life. We’re here to support her, as friends and as colleagues, and we’ll continue to do that no matter what she decides to do.”_

_“The thing about Julie is that she’ll always surprise you,” Mercer says. “And there’s no universe where she’s going to stop working. The question is what that work looks like.”_

_“Right,” Peters adds. “People were asking the same questions after we split up, and she’s managed to turn her career around and go completely 180 degrees against what we did in the band.”_

_While this album represents a significant departure from her usual sound, Mercer and Peters are quick to contextualize it within her artistic process, and to shut down any rumors of a_ Phantoms _reunion_. _  
_

_“We're all in different places now,” Mercer says. “It's not about whether or not we like to work together. It's about what she wanted to make.”_

_“When Julie calls to ask if you want to work with her on an album, if you want to write with her, there’s no universe where we aren’t going to say ‘yes, absolutely, sign me up,’” Peters adds._

_Patterson, notably and predictably, did not respond to any of our calls for comment._

_After a well-publicized tumultuous break-up and rumors of an alleged feud with Molina, he stands as the leading co-writer on the album with his thumbprint on ten of the album’s thirteen tracks._

_Molina doesn’t often speak publicly of the_ Phantoms _or of her relationship with Patterson. Following the band's initial break-up, rumors of the acrimonious split dogged her interviews for nearly two years. It was then that she retreated into her music, speaking on her creative process instead of dwelling on her personal life and identity, a choice that she's abided by for years. “When you grow up and you’re told that you’re a role model, there’s very little space for you to think about who you really are as opposed to how other people see you. There’s no room for you to be anything other than a shining light, right? And there were probably times that I lost myself in that,” she says._

_But with her latest album, it seems she's leaning into those parts of her work and her life that she would have previously shied away from, especially considering Patterson’s influence on the new record.  
_

_Molina smiles, but shakes her head. “He’s always been a substantial figure,” she begins, waving her hands, “in our shared body of work. And the Hall of Fame gave us an opportunity to write a new song together, and then, writing together became…its own kind of habit. He's helped me to rediscover the parts of my voice that I haven't used as much over the years. I wouldn't say I lost anything, or found anything. It was always there.”_

_For a woman known and loved by nearly everyone in the world, those who know Molina say it's difficult to know her well. Ask anyone about her, and you find that they all speak of her in the same glowing terms. She’s supportive to her crew, both on the road and off. She’s a caring and considerate friend, the kind to remember birthdays and send gifts, no matter where she is in the world. But Molina herself has remained opaque when she’s not working, including to those who have been in her circle for years, relying instead on the same tight-knit skeleton crew of people she's known for decades—like Peters and Mercer, like her agent, the notorious Amy Rennet-Poole, and Flynn Patton, a childhood friend. Those in the inner circle are as tight-lipped as Molina is about anything personal, and it’s been difficult to excavate anything about her inner life over the years. But one thing is clear among anyone who’s met her even for a five-minute sit down. Molina always looks forward, and never back._

_But with this new album, maybe she’s shifting her perspective._

_“It’s not that I don’t like to look back on the past, or think about the choices that I’ve made. I just don’t believe in lingering on things that you can’t change.” But her choices recently—the break-up with Jonah Klain, the creative reconciliation with the_ Phantoms, _the decision to skip a promotional tour for her latest album release to take time for herself—suggest a change of heart or, at least, an internal wrestling with the idea of change.  
_

_“It’s not that I’m set in my ways,” she starts, “But it took me a long time to be able to imagine anything being different. I worked a really long time to get my life to this place, and so much of the time, it feels like there are dues that I have to pay, things I have to do, to position my work for success and honor the intentions I had when I set out.”_

_But she was so young when she defined those for herself—seventeen, I remind her._

_“I know!” she says, grinning. “It’s hard to think of making a commitment so early on in your life, and sticking with it. But music and me—it’s really been us down the whole stretch.”_

_That must be a hard pill to swallow, knowing everything that she’s had to compromise to make it that far._

_“I wouldn’t call it compromise,” she says._ _“Did I give things up to do what I love? Yeah. But I think everyone’s had to confront a hard choice at one time or another about what they would give up to do something they love, or for someone they love—it’s a universal experience, just on a bigger scale than what people think is relatable.”_

_That sounds like a trained answer._

_She gives a Mona Lisa smile. “Would you even be asking me that if I wasn’t a woman?” she says._

_Fair enough, I tell her. But the expectations have always been different for the most visible of the successful, and besides, there are fans out there in the world who want her to have her happy ending. “Look, no one can tell me what it feels like when I feel happy,” she says. “Only I know that. And I respect that the fans are invested in me and my growth, and that they want me to be in a better place. I want that too. But they can’t know that better than me. I’m living it.”_

_Does that mean that she’s happy with where it ended with Klain?_

_She shoots me a dead-eyed stare that would wither even the most veteran of reporters, but the fans demand an answer, as her Twitter trend can attest. Either way, I had to ask.  
_

_She bursts into a laugh. “It’s in your contract to ask me about the break-up?”_

_Call it journalistic responsibility.  
_

_“Okay,” she says. “In the interest of journalistic responsibility…it ended on good terms. It was mutual.” In entertainment, mutual can run the gamut of meanings, but when Molina says it, it's easy to believe. It followed a long international tour run, she explains, and Klain on location for another five months after that, and plenty of things are inclined to cool with enough time._

_To the rumors on whether a third-party was involved (wink wink nudge nudge), she’s even more tight-lipped, if you can imagine. But she gives me a game look and tries at an answer. “I know that nothing I will say will keep people from wishing for some kind of happy ending,” she says. “People want to believe in the fairy tale, and they want to fix us because they think they understand what happened. Because they think that we can be fixed or they want to believe in something,”—she waves her hand, searching for the words—“Forgiveness or some great romantic love, I don’t know. But real life doesn’t fit nice and neat like a story.”_

_That doesn’t really answer the question._

_She grins. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”_

_To say that Patterson has remained a point of fan fascination would be an understatement. There are those who love him, and there are those who haven’t forgiven him and will hold the grudge until they die—and both sides will argue about the history for hours, whether it’s close to the truth or not. It’s a typical rock and roll kind of melodrama, one that fills up half of their collective discographies and hovers on the edge of truth and fiction. And their performance at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last year didn’t do much to quell the gossip._

_Molina rolls her eyes. “We work well together. We have chemistry on stage,” she says. “But that’s all it is. Chemistry on stage.”_

_Well, that didn’t always used to be the case, I remind her._

_She hums. “I guess you’re right,” she says. “It used to be something else. But, for now, it’s chemistry on stage.”_

_For now?_

_She’s coy. “You know what I mean,” she says. “There’s no changing the past.”_

_So now that she's won the Superbowl, is she going to Disney World?_

_Molina laughs._ _“I haven’t made any plans, believe it or not." At my expression, she continues,_ _“I know! It’s a real change of pace for me, but I thought—you know, take it one day at a time.”_

_And what does a woman who never looks back have her sights set on for the future?_

_She considers the question. “To be happy,” she says. “To be loved. To be present.”_

_That’s a big ask for anyone, much less one of the most photographed women on the planet._

_“Maybe,” she says, with an enigmatic smile, “But I’m willing to work for it.”_

He can’t sleep.

He can’t stop moving. Every time he tries to settle down, he sees her face again, startled and hurt, reeling from the things that he said to her. No matter how hard he tries, it seems like he’s always doing the wrong thing and she’s the collateral damage. And he knows all of the reasons why it was the wrong time, why it was the wrong thing. He knows the bigger thing to have done was to let her go, to let it go, and retreat back into the happy hollow of a life he’s built for himself without her.

But it isn’t that easy to walk away from her the second time.

It isn’t that easy to forget their night together, the smell of her hair, the taste of her skin, the way that she felt sleeping in his arms that night. He’s spent the last five years thinking of all the ways that he’s been an idiot, and he can’t blame himself for taking a stand this time. When it counts. When it’s the last opportunity he has. Even if she looked at him through tears, even if she looked at him like he broke some silent rule they had. Even if she’s already happy with someone else.

(But there’s a small, selfish part of him that thinks that it wouldn’t hurt her this much if she’d moved on, that if she was happy with Jonah, with whoever, there wouldn’t have been tears or hesitation. There would only have been no.)

But he knows it isn’t fair.

None of this has been fair.

He gets to his feet and walks toward the opposite corner of the room. Stoops and cracks the door to the minibar, counting the tiny bottles inside the fridge. Shuts the door and opens it, counts them again, shuts it. He knows that there’s a better way to burn off the energy and burn off the time, that he could probably go for a late-night run or to the gym downstairs or anything else, but he doesn’t want to leave his bubble. In case.

He paces to the door. Then back to the minibar. Back to the door.

He doesn’t watch the time pass.

  
When the car pulls up outside the hotel, she leans forward and tells the driver to leave the car running before she hops out and darts inside. Jabbing the point of the business card against the tip of her finger to keep herself focused, to try to corral her feelings, she catches the elevator and pushes the button for the 27th floor, heart racing hard in her throat. 

It crawls upward, or feels that way, but the bell dings not a few minutes later, and she stomps out in the direction of his room. The car is running, waiting for her outside the lobby, and the plane is waiting after that, and her life is waiting—has been, in ways that she’s never liked to think about—for her to close this chapter and move on. She propels herself down the hallway and then finds herself standing outside of his room.

She takes a deep breath, jamming the toe of her shoe against the carpet once for good measure. And then, _knock knock knock_ , hard and confident against the door.

He pulls it open before she’s finished knocking, looking like he hasn’t slept at all, jittery with energy, with nerves, dark circles pronounced under his eyes. His mouth falls open as he pulls the door the rest of the way open, halfway to saying something, but she shakes her head.

“How _dare_ you,” she hisses.

He recoils, wiping at his eyes with his hand. “You came here to tell me _no_?” he says.

“Inside,” she hisses, and he lifts his arm for her to duck under as she walks past him into the hotel room. His clothes are scattered everywhere, the complimentary gift basket from the Hall of Fame still lying in its plastic on top of the dresser.

He folds his arms over his chest and sighs. “All right,” he says. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t need your permission,” she snaps.

He hunches his shoulders, staring down at the floor while he waits for her to start. “You’re leaving.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I am, and I have a car waiting for me downstairs…”

“So, what?” he says, throwing his arms wide. “You came here to…”

“Shut up,” she interrupts. She’s angry already, shifting on her toes, color rising into her cheeks, and he finds himself resisting an urge to brush the hair out of her face, to slide the sunglasses down her nose so that he can see her eyes. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up to the last show that we’re supposed to do together and drop shit like this before I have to fly across the country.”

“You wanted me to say something,” he says.

“Shut up,” she repeats. “You said your piece and it’s my turn.”

“Okay.”

“Every time we do this, it’s on your terms,” she says. “You get to drop something nice and neat in my lap and run away, and leave all of the consequences for later, for somebody else, for me. Well, I’m not doing that twice and that’s not what’s going to happen right now.”

“So what are you still doing here?” he says.

She smacks him lightly in the arm. “Shut. Up. Jesus—you can’t give me an ultimatum because it’s convenient for you, and expect me to turn around and—what— _thank_ you for it? Is that what you thought was going to happen? God, I can’t believe you think—I don’t even know what you think!”

He opens his mouth to respond, and closes it again at her threatening glare.

“We can’t just go back to what we used to be,” she says. “I know that’s what you want. I know that’s what you’re thinking but we can’t. We’re not those people anymore. And you can’t come back for one night after five years and think that’s enough to fix things. We had _problems_ , Luke. Problems that we never actually talked about because you left in the middle of the night.”

“And because you didn’t want to talk about it for _years_ ,” he says. “You shut me out.”

“Luke.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m shutting up.”

“You’re an asshole,” she says. “That’s number one. And, number two, if we’re clearing the air, I didn’t get to tell you to fuck off five years ago, so I’m getting it off my chest now. Fuck off.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “Is that all?”

She huffs a breath, swiping the sunglasses off of her face as she looks at him. She looks exhausted, like she hasn’t slept either, like she’s been running through the options in her head for as long as he has. But he knows better than to think that he knows what Julie Molina will do in any given situation, especially with her back against the wall. “No,” she says, and the bluster in her voice collapses away. She opens her mouth, and closes it. Then, after a beat, she says, “No, that's not all. I don’t know what’s going to happen here either. I can’t tell you.”

He tilts his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t know what it means,” she says, throwing up her hands. “I don’t have any answers for you.”

He flashes the slightest hint of a smile. “It doesn’t mean no.”

She meets his gaze. “It doesn’t mean yes either.”

“But it means…maybe?” he says.

She gives a soft disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “It means that there’s a lot that we have to talk about. A lot to deal with.”

He draws a shape in the air with his hands. “The unfinished business.”

“Luke, I’m serious,” she says. “We can’t just pretend that the last five years never happened.”

Why not, he wants to know. Why can’t they pretend that those were two completely different people who didn’t know who they were and what they wanted, and leave it at that? All he wants to do is close the door on that part of his life, on that version of him that did nothing but hurt the ones he was closest to, that put himself and his own visions of his life above everything else he cared about, but he knows. He knows her. He knows that she’s too careful now, too aware of how things can get broken and go wrong. He knows that part of her still expects something like that from him—the dropping of the other shoe, the bubble bursting, leaving her back where she started, a little the worse for wear. 

But he tips his head down and gives a small nod. “I’m not asking you to forget about it.”

She presses her lips together and nods. “Good,” she says.

“I’m asking for you to give us a chance,” he says.

She huffs an aggravated sigh. “I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know what this is. I don’t think you do either. I mean, last night was…” 

There’s a long pause, and she lets the sentence hang.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “I know that things are—different and weird, and—and—a lot of time’s gone by and there are parts of it that you don’t want to think about—I get that. I’m not asking you for an answer tomorrow. I’m just saying—keep an open mind.”

“An open mind,” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m letting you drive.”

She scoffs. “Luke.”

He takes her hand and gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze. 

When she looks at him this time, it’s half-exasperated and half-fond, and he smiles because it reminds him of dozens of other times. He’s missed this—not just looking at her, not just finding himself surprised by her light, by her brightness—but her presence. Even—especially—when she isn’t being Julie Molina, but the Julie that he used to know. The one who used to play alongside him in their old garage studio.

It’s funny, he thinks, how years later, he still thinks of them as a they.

“No promises,” she says, warning. “Just…one day at a time.”

He hooks his fingers around hers and swings them in a kind of pinky promise.

“No promises,” he repeats.

She exhales a shaky breath and slides the sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose. “I have to go,” she says. “Amy’s going to kill me if she shows up at the hotel and I’m not there.”

“Hey,” he says, catching her wrist in his hand. His thumb presses gently against her pulse.

She steps closer, breath catching in her throat. He traces a line across the width of her wrist. “Yeah?”

He grins, wide and bright. “You’re going to kill it on the morning shows,” he says. “Trust me.”

“Thanks.”

“And you have my number now, so…”

“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

She shakes her head and makes her way towards the door, pausing once she reaches for the handle.

He follows behind her, halfway to trying to figure out what’s wrong, if maybe the door’s decided to stick in the frame on a whim, when she turns on her heel to face him again. 

She looks at him a moment before she starts moving, slow, deliberate, careful, like she’s not sure where she’s stepping and she’s afraid of breaking something.

“What—” he starts.

Her mouth touches briefly against his cheek, nearly at the corner of his mouth. It’s soft and over before he even knows what’s happening, and then she’s back to business, turning back on her heel towards the door and heading out.

The door falls shut behind her, the lock clicking back into place.

He exhales sharply, glancing around the empty room. “Bye,” he says, to no one.

It serves him right, she thinks, to have to deal with the fallout for once in his life. It serves him right to be the one left behind, scrambling to pick up the pieces.

And, if she’s being honest, it’s easier to duck and run back to California, to the safety of her home and hide out until she can figure out what it is that they’re doing. What it is that they want to be doing.

She’s never been one for what-ifs—she’s always preferred the surety of a certain answer, of knowing that she isn’t waiting to react, but reacting. But there’s something about Luke, about the Phantoms, that sends her spinning back into being sixteen and confused, into that tiny studio garage with Luke overexcited and grinning at her, trying to get her to join their band. And there’s nothing about that that she can change—not how much they meant to each other, not how well they worked, not how they went big and blew up. There’s too much of it, the past, and all they can do is tiptoe around it and figure out where to hide it until it can’t hurt them anymore.

If she’s being honest, she knows they’ve opened a door to something that won’t easily close. He’s crept back into her life too comfortably, and reminded her of everything she’s worked too hard to forget over the years.

On the flight, she sits with her hands folded in her lap, her head leaned against the window, wishing she could catch the sunrise and knowing that they’re a little too early for it. It’s too early to think about her ghosts, too early to think about the conversation they had in his hotel room, too early to think about the offer that he made. None of it is fair, she thinks, to have him drag all of this back into her life like it was anything that she asked for when she was already building something new.

Amy keeps an eye on her during the flight and pretends not to be, thumbing her way through an old issue of _The Atlantic_ that Julie knows she’s read through cover to cover. Multiple times.

“You usually sleep on the plane,” Amy says.

“Yeah,” Julie says, rolling her forehead against the window. “I can’t sleep.”

“Anything the matter?”

“Coffee,” Julie says. “Too much coffee.”

Amy hums. “You still feeling okay to do the morning shows?”

“Yeah. You know me.”

“Yeah,” Amy says. “I do. Don’t overthink it.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is that you’re not thinking about,” Amy says. “Whatever it is that’s keeping you up.”

Julie closes her eyes and settles back into her seat with a sigh. 

“You’ve got four hours,” Amy says.

“Okay.” She shifts her position, easing her chair back into a deeper recline.

Outside, the clouds underneath them are a deep gray, looking heavy and full. When she closes her eyes, she can recall the low rumble of his voice beside her in bed, the skate of his touch against her skin.

She shivers.

The thing with never looking back, she thinks, is that you can’t see what’s chasing you, not until you’re caught.

And the other thing is she doesn’t know if she’s the one catching, or being caught.

She doesn’t know if it makes a difference.

  
He’s never really been a morning person. But after she leaves his hotel room, he can’t bring himself to go to sleep, too wired and too tired to do anything other than turn the tv on and drown out everything he isn’t thinking about with pure noise.

It’s cold that morning, but he opens the door to the terrace and steps out to watch the sunrise, light bleeding into the charcoal gray of the clouds. He doesn’t think about her, pressed up against the window, eyes darting out to watch the sky as the plane makes its ascent. He doesn’t think about how many thousands of miles she’s traveling now, back into a life that he hasn’t been a part of and to the hundreds of little responsibilities and duties that she thinks she owes people.

Julie’s never really learned how to say no to anything except for him, he thinks. And she’ll keep pushing and working and going until she can’t. Like he did, once.

He shakes his head, shivering against the hard lap of the wind off the river, and watches the sky change color. There are a thousand things he should be doing now too—packing, making arrangements with Michael on the final logistics for the tour, making plans for what happens after that. But the only plans that he wants to be thinking about are the ones that he has no control over, the ones that have nothing to do with what he wants at all.

He itches to text her, to call her, to hear from her as soon as she lands. But it’s too early. 

It’s too early to check in, too early to ask, too early for him to be awake. It’s too early to think about what happens next.

So he does what he can do: he calls Michael, he checks in for his flight, and he tries not to think about her.

The boys agree to meet him for breakfast, and they find their way to an old Irish pub downtown. It’s empty of everyone but their staunchest regulars, men in their fifties who keep to their usual stools, sipping at large beers. They get a table and order simple plates, all three of them yawning at each other as they lean their elbows against the sticky wooden tabletop.

After they order, Alex drums a steady beat against the tabletop, leaning his head down over his hands while Reggie grumbles.

“What’s the matter with you?” Luke says.

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I guess,” Alex says, slamming the heel of his hand against the edge of the table on a beat.

“It’s early and I’m hungry,” Reggie says. “I didn’t realize the two of you were so good in the morning.”

Luke shrugs. “I didn’t sleep.”

Alex flashes a smile. “I’m always like this.” At Luke’s answer, he turns with a frown, “What do you mean you didn’t sleep? Like, at all?”

Luke shakes his head and stretches. “After the show, I was just…too wired, I guess.”

Alex studies him carefully, eyebrows furrowed in skepticism. “Uh huh,” he says. “Sure.”

“What are you up to once you head back?”

Reggie groans, leaning back in his chair. “We’re supposed to be finishing up the songs for the new album,” he says. “The label’s on our ass about it.”

“They want to get all the residual good press while they can after this,” Alex adds. “You’re going on tour?”

“National,” he says. “Nothing huge.”

Reggie nods. “It’ll be good for you to get back out there,” he says, while Alex snorts. “On the road again.”

They slide into a riff on the Willie song as the waitress brings their food. It’s a breakfast like Luke hasn’t had in too long, a little too unhealthy for how old he is, the eggs and bacon dripping wet with more grease than he should be eating, the potatoes crispy to near-burnt, the toast dry. The coffee is the house blend, too-hot from sitting on the warmer and tasting a little burnt.

They dive in immediately and he almost burns his mouth on the coffee.

“So good,” Reggie mumbles around a mouthful of food.

“What are you guys writing?” Luke says.

Alex gives him that funny side-long look again, like he’s on the verge of figuring something out. He’s always been a little too nosy or a little too smart for his own good, Luke knows, and it means he’s always the first one to figure out whatever it is that Luke is setting up.

Reggie shrugs. “Sallie’s been great in helping us get the ideas around on the album, but we’re just writing,” he says. “I don’t think we know what the album is going for yet.”

“You thinking about something?” Alex says.

Luke takes a spoonful of potatoes and crunches them between his teeth. “This show has me thinking.”

“Yeah?” Alex prompts, stirring a spoon in his coffee. “About what?”

“We write really well together,” he says, bouncing his knee. “The three of us. The four of us. It seems stupid to lose that again.”

“Who are we going to write for, dude?” Reggie says. “We’re not a band anymore.”

“Come on,” Luke says. “I co-wrote on some of the _Sunset Curve_ tracks.”

“You listened and gave us advice we weren’t asking for, you mean,” Alex says.

Luke flings a potato into his lap. “Advice you took, you asshole.”

Reggie looks at him. “Why are you thinking about it?”

Alex shoots him a look. “Reg,” he says. “Come on. Get with the program.”

“Shut up,” Luke says. He fidgets with the handle of his fork a second, shifting to the edge of the stool as he glances at them. “Look, I know that I owe you—after Tokyo, and everything…a lot. More than I probably ever paid you back, but you’re my boys. You’re the first people I ever wrote with. And this feels like a second chance, and i don’t want to lose it.”

Alex glances at Reggie, his hand coming up to slowly clap against Luke’s shoulder.

“It’s all water under the bridge, right?” Reggie says, gently. “We talked it out.”

“You get tired of writing your own songs?” Alex cracks. “Miss the old sound?”

He gives a half-shrug. “I forgot what it was like,” he says. “Working with other people.”

“Oh, did you used to do that too?” Alex says. “I don’t remember you ever talking about that in your interviews.”

Luke’s mouth splits in a wide grin. “Shut up, man.”

“I just want to get one thing straight,” Reggie says. “I have definite veto power. We all do.”

“Look at Mr. Hardline Negotiator here,” Alex says.

Reggie kicks him under the table.

Alex cups his mug of coffee between his palms, leveling a flat stare at him from across the table. “But what exactly brought all this on, hmm?” he says, sipping at his coffee. “Could it be that a certain visitor…a certain _someone_...”

Luke balls his napkin in his fist and throws it in his face. 

Alex splutters, the napkin landing in his plate. Fishing it out with a grimace of distaste, he whips it off to the edge of the table. “Real mature.”

Luke shrugs. “You started it.”

Reggie shakes his head and takes another bite of his waffles. “Come on, guys. Over breakfast?”

“Yeah, all right, Reginald,” Alex crows. “Don’t let him change the subject. You want to tell us what motivated your, uh, little change of heart here?”

He shuffles his feet against the floor, and glances down at his plate. “I thought we could all be friends again.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Alex says. “And?”

“And what?”

“ _And_?”

“And I didn’t want to let us go without talking about it.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “You have our numbers, dude,” he says. “And you know that we’re here for you, no matter what.” He pauses, and sets his hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Right? You know that? We’re not going anywhere.”

Luke nods.

“Okay, great,” Alex says. “So get your head out of your ass, and start talking.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“We have to leave for our flight in three hours, so time’s a-wasting.”

Luke sets his fork down against the edge of his plate. “I just don’t want to lose a second chance.”

“At what?” Reggie says.

He shrugs. “At the music?” 

“Bullshit,” Alex says.

“What do you want me to say?” Luke says.

“Be honest with us,” Reggie says. “You said it. We’re your boys. So be real with us about where you’re at. Don’t shut us out.”

He sighs and glances at both of them. “I don’t want to ruin things,” he says.

“Well, on the bright side,” Reggie chirps, “You already did once, so it can’t be that bad to do it a second time.”

Alex coughs a laugh behind his hand.

“Thanks, Reg,” Luke says.

“What he means to say,” Alex says, “is that things can’t be worse than they were after Tokyo. Right?”

“Yeah,” Luke says.

“So stop _hiding_ ,” he says. “And stop trying to get us to say it for you.”

“I’m not hiding,” he says.

Reggie scoffs, piercing a potato on the end of his fork. “Okay, look. We’ll make it easy. Do you really want to write with us, or do you want a reason to talk to Julie again?”

Alex and Luke both freeze, their forks hovering in the air inches from their mouths.

“Damn, Reg,” Alex says. “Fucking _eat_ something.”

“You know that we like writing with you,” Reggie says, mumbling around a bite of food, “And you know where to find us. But if you’re just using us as an excuse, then that’s bullshit and you know it.”

Alex nods. 

“I gave it a shot,” Luke says. “And I’m not using you for anything.”

Reggie glances at Alex, and they have a silent conversation for a moment, blinking and nodding slightly back and forth. And then they’re turning back to him, pushing food around on their plates. “Okay,” Alex says. “Good.”

“So, after the tour,” Reggie begins.

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. What do you mean you ‘gave it a shot’?” Alex says.

Luke shrugs. “I mean I tried.”

“Okay,” Alex says, stretching the word out. “Tried to do what?”

Luke huffs a sigh. “I tried to talk to her. Just like I’m trying to talk to the two of you right now. I mean it. You guys were— _are_ —my best friends, and I don’t want to lose sight of that.”

Alex touches a hand to his heart.

“And what exactly did you say to her?” Reggie says. “Did you piss her off again?”

Alex’s jaw drops. “Reggie, _Christ_.”

“I'm _eating_ ,” Reggie says.

“Clearly not fast enough,” Alex says.

Luke shakes his head. “I don’t—I don’t think so.”

Reggie spears another piece of sausage and pops it in his mouth. “Okay,” he says. “Great.”

“Look,” Luke says. “I know that this is dragging up a lot of old shit, but I’ve just been thinking. Not just this week either, but...for a while...about what happened, and...”

“And what you fucked up,” Alex adds.

“Thanks,” Luke deadpans. “But if this trip has helped me with anything, it’s helped me realize that I’m not ready to let go of all of this yet. Not working with you. That’s what got me here in the first place. That's what I loved. Writing music with you guys.”

Reggie takes a sip of coffee, setting his cup down and leveling him with a flat stare.

“I’m serious,” Luke continues, lifting his fork. “To us.”

They blink at him, half-confused and half-exasperated.

“To the _Phantoms_ ,” he says. “To _Sunset Curve_ , and everything that we’ve done together. Everything that we will do.”

Alex’s mouth quirks in a teasing smile, but he lifts his fork. “To closing out unfinished business.”

Reggie shovels another bite into his mouth and mumbles his toast, lifting his clean fork up to clink against theirs.

Alex blinks. “What’d you say, Reg?”

He swallows and takes a gulp of his water. “I said, the band is back.”

Alex hums, scrunching his nose. “It’s not, though,” he says. “Is it?”

Reggie shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts?”

Luke laughs. “To us, boys.”

“To us,” Alex says.

“To you and Julie maybe finally figuring your shit out,” Reggie adds. Off their look and Alex’s laughing, he adds, “And to us.”

  
He’s on his way to the airport when his phone pings with a notification for her _Good Morning LA_ performance.

She’s dressed down in a patterned jumpsuit, her hair lying against her shoulders, pinned away from her face with large butterfly clips. He can tell how tired she is by the way her smile slowly spreads across her face, by the flat answers she gives to the morning anchors. By anyone else’s standards, it would be a good performance, but Julie’s never given anything less than 150% unless she physically couldn’t.

They make small talk about the new album and they hint at a coming tour.

“Julie,” the female anchor chirps, “It’s so great to have you on again. And we wanted to congratulate you on officially entering the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

Her smile is soft. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s a great honor.”

“I’m sure it must have felt like deja vu to be playing with your old band again after all of these years,” the anchor continues. “What was the experience like for you?”

“It’s…” she says, pausing, “Impossible to describe.”

“I’m sure it must have been a little surreal.”

“I mean, we were like a family, you know, and coming back together was easier than you might think.”

“The performance was incredible. We have some longtime JATP fans on crew, and they loved it. Are there any plans to reunite in any bigger way?”

She gives a gentle laugh. “Not right now,” she says. “You know, we’re all working on our own music, but in the future, who knows? Anything could happen.”

The anchor flashes her winning smile. “And of course, since we have you on our beautiful stage today, you know that we would love for you to sing something for us…”

Julie perks a smile. “Of course!” she says. “I’d be happy to.”

There’s a flash cut, and then it’s Julie sitting in soft lighting with an acoustic guitar in her hand, tucking one loose strand of hair behind her ear and shyly glancing up at the camera.

“This is a song that I wrote with some old friends,” she says, by way of an introduction. “I hope you like it. It’s called _Mainsail_.”

And then she’s strumming through the open chords, a little slower, her voice vulnerable and airy as she sings through the opening into the verse.

Her playing gets neater, the strings delicate as she breaks it out into a different arrangement, better suited to her playing style. And then she’s tossing her shoulders back, eyes looking straight into the camera as she sings. “ _And would you say you can see the beach from here,_ ” she sings, lowering into the harmony, “‘ _Cause I’ve been carried along too long by the tide…_ ”

Her voice gets tremulous with emotion as she strums hard into the next chords, and he watches her hand tighten against the neck just slightly.

“ _And there ain’t no going back when the road is clear_ ,” she sings, “ _And I’m sorry…_ ” 

The word gets stretched into a run as she levels a glance towards the camera. For a moment, he wonders if he can see the flash of a murmured word, but then she’s back into the song. 

“ _…for leaving it all behind…_ ”

He exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and the Uber pulls up to the terminal. Clicking his phone off, he pops out of the car and gets his luggage.

He can’t stop hearing the breathy catch in her voice as she hits the run.

He can’t stop hearing how her voice breaks the word and turns it into something touched by grace, nearly delicate enough to shatter.

At the airport, he fires off a text to her: _saw you on gmla. knew you would kill it._

  
Amy’s waiting for her in the car after she finishes her third morning show taping of the day.

She climbs straight into the backseat of the idling car, so exhausted she can’t think, spots appearing behind her eyes whenever she blinks, and all she wants is to crawl into her bed and sleep for the next ten hours.

“Can we just go straight home?” she says, with a big yawn. “I’m ready to pass out for the next two days.”

“Speaking of surprises,” Amy says. 

“Oh, no,” Julie says. “You’re not going to tell me you booked me something else, are you?”

“When are you going to start telling me about these song substitutions before you start filming?”

Julie throws a bright smile, and leans back in her seat. “It’s a spur of the moment thing.”

“It’ll be easier for me to defend you from the label,” Amy says, “if you tell me these spur of the moment things in advance.”

“I have faith in you, Ames,” she says, closing her eyes. “You can do it.”

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing she knows, she’s blinking up at the sight of her house and Amy’s standing outside the car, smoking a cigarette.

She climbs out with a sheepish shrug of the shoulders. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she says, and Amy finishes the last drag and flicks it to the ground, crushing it underneath her shoe.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I know it’s been a really long week for you.”

Julie rubs at her eyes. “Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

She glances at Amy, blinking through her sleepiness. “What do you mean?”

Amy’s mouth flattens. “I mean, is everything okay?”

Julie glances at the front door and shrugs. “Yeah,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good,” Amy says. “Enjoy your days off, and I’ll keep you posted on anything that happens.”

She wraps her arms around her in a quick hug. “Thanks,” she says. “See you later.”

  
She’s never liked coming home to an empty house.

When she was a kid, her mom would always greet her at the door with a hug and a kiss, or a song or a dance, something loud and vivid and fun. And when she was older, there were the boys, climbing over each other to talk to her about something they were writing, about an argument they were having, trying to make her laugh or take a side.

The first home she ever bought came after the success of their second record—when they’d made enough to prove that they weren’t disappearing, when she felt comfortable enough to claim a space for herself. She always thought that her dad and Carlos might come and stay with her, and she’d tried a large, spacious house by the beach.

They didn't, but after Amsterdam, he did.

He took up space in her home like he did in her life, leaving traces of his presence on everything, turning it all upside-down until she couldn't remember how it used to look before he got there. He sprawled over her furniture at weird angles, played music at all hours into the night or the early morning, mumbled his way through half-written songs as he walked back and forth to the kitchen in search of something to eat.

In the days after Prague, she remembered how hard it was just to stand in the space of her own house and feel like she had lost something, that the space itself was haunted by his absence as much as it had been built by all of their joy.

This house, she’d bought after the first solo album. It’s smaller, cozier, and a lot more private, shaded from the street with high hedges and trees with a spacious garden and the requisite pool. This house was for her, built on the hard lessons she'd picked up after getting the first one. There’s still space for visitors, for Carlos, for her dad, for Flynn, but there’s no expectation of it. From the street, it doesn’t look like much; it only shows its warmth once you step in past the front door.

Tossing her luggage aside, she kicks the door shut behind her and toes off her shoes, sprinting for her favorite sofa in the living room. Her phone flashes with notifications, and she busies herself with undoing her hair, getting it loose of any clips and ties, scraping her fingers through to try to break up the product.

Later, there’ll be time to shower and strip everything off and climb into her bed. But for now, she switches on an old Nina Simone record and collapses onto the sectional.

Scrolling through her phone with a yawn, she checks her messages. Two from her dad, one from Carlos, six from her aunt, fourteen from Flynn, and—

She bites her lip, clicking through to the message, and reads it. 

She’s too tired to know what to write back. 

She’s too tired to hold herself back from writing what she actually wants to say—that she’s so tired all she wants to do is sleep for two straight weeks, that she can’t think about what the tour will take from her, that she can’t believe that he watched her when he’s always hated morning shows. She still remembers doing those old spots with him, him swearing every other word, rumpled and sleepy-looking while the crew tended to his bedhead and his dark circles, letting her and Reggie charm all the anchors while he phoned in a lazy smile and let his charm do all the work.

Nina’s voice breaks through the silence, ringing and heavy.

She wipes at her eyes, tilting her head back against the pillows. How does anybody pick up a twenty-year conversation after years of silence? How can she act like they’re the same people in the same place as they once were? But starting as something completely new feels too much like a lie to be believed; they know each other in and out, down to their ghosts and their shadows, to the marrow of their fears and their weaknesses, and pretending that they don’t would be as much a lie as anything else.

She wants it to be lighter. The work, the living, the being. She wants to stop carrying it around all of the damn time.

 _thanks_ , she types. _i didn’t know that you watched those kinds of shows now._

Undoes the second line, and stares at the blink of the cursor.

_i can’t believe you watched._

She reads it through again, and can’t decide if she loves it or hates it. With a sigh, she pushes herself up off the sofa and heads towards the kitchen.

The sun streams in bright through the windows, shining warm against her face. She rustles through the pantry and pulls out a few kinds of cookies, and pulls open the fridge door to stare at nothing but shelves stacked full with seltzer. 

He always loved to find her in the kitchen. _Because I know you’ll end up here sooner or later_ , he once told her. _Because I know what my girl likes._

She puts up hot water for tea, and smiles around the memory.

He used to like to box her against the counters, his arms on either side of her, leaning in close until she couldn’t do anything else but pay attention to him. Or he would slide her up onto the countertop and walk between her legs, his hands light against her waist as he kissed her.

The kettle whistles, and she switches the gas off, pouring the hot water into a waiting mug. 

She erases the entire message, and starts again. _wow, it must have really been amazing if you don’t have any feedback_ , she types, sending it before she can reconsider again.

Setting her phone on the counter, she picks up her mug of tea. It’s too hot to drink, but she presses the warm lip of it against hers and blows at it to cool. The sun outside is pure picturesque California, golden as it lands against the dark green counters. It’s more than beautiful, it’s something she doesn’t have words for—something her mother would have loved, something that feels almost holy. It’s moments like these when she loves standing in her kitchen, observing the movement of the world around her without having to be part of it, content to just watch.

He used to call it her quiet kitchen time. 

And there were moments too when he would find her there in the late nights or the early mornings, both of them too tired to do anything other than be honest, and talk about everything they wanted, everything that seemed too good to be true. Like early on, when they didn’t know what to call what they were doing, when they didn’t know if it was a thing they were doing at all, and they stood there and watched the sunrise together.

He would pull her into his arms against the chill of the morning and shower kisses against the crown of her head, and tell her everything they were going to do together.

_we’re going to travel the world, and see everything that you always wanted to see and never had time to._

_we’re going to have the rest of our lives to do whatever you want._

_every day is going to be just like this._

And it was, until it wasn’t.

She takes a sip of her tea and scalds her tongue. 

On the counter, her phone buzzes three times in quick succession.

Setting the mug back down, she picks up her phone, unlocks it, and scrolls through.

 _ha ha_ , Luke replies.

 _that’s what i get for trying to be nice to you when you’re tired_ , Luke replies.

_next time, no mercy._

She smiles, and fires off a quick response. _bring it, old man._ Maybe it’s dangerous, how easy and familiar it all feels, but she misses this part—the lightness of it, the easy laughter, the game.

Reaching for her mug, she takes a sip and feels it warm her on its way down. 

When her phone buzzes again, she picks it up immediately. But it isn’t Luke this time. It’s Jonah.

 _I heard you’re back_ , he texts. _Can we talk?_

She closes her eyes and sips at her tea.

 _yeah_ , she answers. _come over tonight._

  
They met because of their managers.

It had been calculated from the beginning, an opportunity to build her star power while she was promoting her (fizzled, stale) movie career and to buzz him up ahead of his movies by linking him with her music. It had been dumb luck that they found each other to be likable enough to be something more than colleagues, something like friends, even when they were pretending to be all over each other at the premieres.

She had never given much thought to the trappings of it—she had still been flying blind out of what had happened with Luke, and Jonah had been kind enough to be there without any expectations. They didn’t ask too much about each other’s personal lives, and they found that it was easy to coop up inside one of their homes and do stupid things that they never had a chance to do otherwise—play board games and drink wine, pretend to be normal.

He made her laugh, and she reminded him to relax.

He listened to her songs, and she read through his scripts and told him what she thought would be a bad fit.

He held back the paparazzi and mixed a mean cocktail, and she made him waffles in the morning and reminded him to stock his fridge with actual food.

And then somewhere along the way, she stumbled into a kind of gray area, missing him when he wasn’t there, thinking of him when she was on tour. He sent her little gifts too, dahlia arrangements for her dressing rooms, cards and texts and stupid TikTok videos of baby animals that he knew would get her to smile.

She had never given it much thought at all.

  
When he shows up at her house, it’s half past eight, and she’s mixed herself boxed mac and cheese for dinner. It isn’t the healthiest, but she’s got nothing else in her house and it reminds her of being home, of late nights with Flynn and dinners with her dad when he was still trying to figure out how to do the parenting thing on his own.

When she sees him, she smiles on instinct. He’s dressed down in sweats and a snapback, looking like anyone else on the street.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she says, pulling the door open. “Come in.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I know you just got back from Cleveland like, what, this morning?”

“Last night this morning,” she says, with a shrug. “But I took a nap. It’s fine. You hungry? You want something to eat?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sorry,” she says. “I forgot that I actually don’t have food. I have cereal somewhere though that might still be good.”

He shakes his head.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s sit down.”

She climbs onto her sofa, and sits with her knees pressed up to her chest, her chin tucked against it as she watches him. He’s too tall for her space, but he sinks down onto the floor, leaning his back against the sofa, stretching his long legs underneath her coffee table.

“What’s up?” she says.

“We didn’t really get to talk at the Hall of Fame thing.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry about that. There was a lot going on and with the boys and everything…”

“Are you okay?” 

She blinks up at him, startled. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

He shrugs, and shrinks further into the floor. “I know that you said that things with him were…complicated.”

She exhales through her teeth.

“And I know that going back to play with them again was hard for you.”

“Yeah,” she says.

“There’s been a lot going around. On, like, social or whatever.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Are you worried?”

“Joanie’s worried,” he says. “But whatever—look, I’m just worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

He softens. “I know,” he says. “But you don’t have to all of the time. It’s why you have people, J.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s why you have me.”

She blinks up at him. “Jonah.”

“Joanie’s telling me to figure out what’s going on with you,” he says, reaching a hand up towards her on the couch. “And I told her that I didn’t know.”

She shakes her head at him. “Going on?” she repeats. “Nothing’s going on with me.”

“Things haven’t exactly been normal since you went to Cleveland.”

“Sure, they have,” she says. “We’re the same as we were.”

He drums his fingers against the couch, and then runs his hand through his hair. “Don’t lie to me, J,” he says. “Whatever you think you have to hide from me, trust me—I’ve heard worse. I’ve probably done worse.”

She lets her legs drop down to the sofa. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just…trying to protect everyone.”

His eyes are so blue when he leans in and looks at her. “It’s not your job to protect everyone,” he says. “It’s not your job to protect me.”

“I’m not protecting you,” she says.

“Aren’t you?” he says.

She exhales. “So what are you saying? That this isn’t working?”

“She thinks that we should call it,” he says. “But I like you, J. I liked working with you. We’re buds.”

She laughs. “Yeah?”

“And whatever happened that you don’t think you can talk to me about…I just want you to know that you can,” he says. “That's all."

She chews on her thumbnail in thought. “We just…wrote a song,” she says.

He nods. “I heard,” he says. “It’s a good one.”

Her smile is thin. “Thanks.”

“It’s not over ’til it’s over, you know?”

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table.

Jonah jabs her hard in the knee. “It’s. Not. Over. Until. It’s. Over.”

She giggles, and he climbs up onto the sofa to cuddle beside her. He’s solid and warm against her, his long arms wrapping around her as he settles in beside her. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says.

“Nobody does.”

She leans back against his chest. “Are we okay?”

He squeezes her tight. “Please,” he grumbles. “Like I could ever get rid of you.”

She sighs, relaxing against him. “If you try, I’ll kill you.”

He snorts. “Solid logic.”

She rolls onto her side to face him. “So we’re good?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in to kiss her. It’s soft and chaste, gentle. 

He leans forward and kisses her again, trying to deepen the kiss, but she tilts her head to the side. He pulls away with a soft hum and licks his lips. “Jonah,” she says, laying a hand against his chest.

“Okay,” he says. “Buds.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not over ’til it’s over,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” she says, shifting back to sitting.

“And I’m afraid I have to break up with you now,” he says.

She scoffs a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Because you’re playing with my emotions and breaking my heart.”

She sits up and smacks him hard in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“You’re a heartbreaker.”

  
They stage a few photos, him sneaking out late in the night with a box full of his sweatshirts and stuff. He calls in a few favors with paparazzi, and she has to admit that they look believable. The cap is pulled down low over his head, and he angles his shoulders away from them as he walks towards his car. 

In the morning, she wakes up to find them trending. The photos are everywhere, the front of her house blurred out and dark.

 _J2 CALL IT QUITS, JULIE HEARTBROKEN AS JONAH SPLITS AHEAD OF TOUR_ , TMZ says.

 _ENOUGH! JONAH DITCHES JULIE AFTER PHANTOMS HALL OF FAME RUMORS_ , JustJared writes.

She scrolls quick through her feeds and it’s all angry tweets, supportive tweets, threats, insults, and suspicious eye emojis linking her to Luke.

Her phone starts ringing.

She switches it off.

Reggie’s the one who sends him the news. He’s been living out of his studio for the last few days, but even in the middle of nowhere, it’s hard to escape news of Julie Molina.

It’s been impossible to think about anything else, even when he’s buried in the middle of writing. Everywhere he looks, he expects to hear her voice, the rustle of her socked feet against the wooden floor. Since Cleveland, he hasn’t been able to stop picturing her slotting into the shapes of his new life—to see her sitting by the rack of guitars in the corner, plunking away at simple chords while he tries to fix a line, to hear the fridge door opening and closing and opening and closing while she tries to figure out what she wants.

He misses her with an intensity that surprises even him, a sharp ache that strikes him whenever he turns from one hall to the other and expects to see her hovering in the shadows.

He thinks about calling her, texting her, tries to imagine what kind of thing would be okay to say. But he can’t hide it—a part of him can’t help but spark alive at the idea that she’s unattached now, that she’s free to be with whoever she wants to be with, whether that’s him or anyone else. But they’ve had this talk once, twice, a dozen times, and he isn’t going to push it. Julie moves whenever she’s ready, and never any sooner.

So he takes his feelings to the piano and plays his restlessness out against the keys. _Stop trying to write other people’s parts_ , she scolds him from a week ago, and he smiles because he can’t stop smiling, because he’s accepted that the things he can’t exorcise are the ghosts that he has to learn how to live with, and he wants to live with her in whatever way he can—real or imagined, ghost or live.

He knows himself too well now to think that he could ever live without her. In whatever way he can, he’ll take it. In whatever time he gets, he’ll take it, and call himself lucky. Maybe that’s what growing up looks like.

He hears her voice, its clear soprano, in the back of his mind as he lays down the chords. 

He pours himself a drink and tries to write through it.

 _Bro_ , she cracks, from the corner, _Another ballad? Really?_

Sometimes that’s all you get, he thinks. Ballads and memories.

  
He misses her call when he’s in the recording booth.

By the time he wraps up for the day, it’s almost midnight. He crawls lazily towards his kitchen and starts pulling out pots to make himself pasta.

He’s waiting for the water to boil when he thinks of calling her back. There’s too much to consider—the lateness of the hour, the window since he missed her call, the lack of a voicemail—but it’s late and the water is slow, and he doesn’t think she’d buy any excuse he offered anyway. If she misses it, he thinks, then they’re even.

The line rings, and he paces in his kitchen, waiting for her to pick up. Two rings, three, four, and he starts panicking when he hears, “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

He can almost hear her facial expression over the line. “Were you trying to wake me?”

“No,” he says. “I just got out of the studio and I saw that you called.”

“Wow,” she says. “Busy day.”

He hums over the line. “Yeah,” he says.

“New album?”

He scuffs his foot against the floor. “Just writing,” he says.

“I see.”

“What are you up to?”

She breathes a sigh over the line, and he suddenly aches to see her, to touch her. “Someone isn’t up on their celebrity gossip,” she says.

“Big news day?”

“You could say that,” she says. “I’m hiding out in my house right now. We’re supposed to be setting up logistics for the tour. Figuring out outfits and set lists and dancers and all that, but it’s been impossible since we got back.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your song about?”

“I have pieces,” he says, rustling in the kitchen drawer for a wooden spoon. “Nothing as far as lyrics yet.”

“Fine,” she says. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think it’s a ballad.”

“Writing a lot of ballads lately.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I think this one I might try to give to someone else. It’s not right for the latest record.”

“Yeah? To who?”

He shrugs, and watches as the water comes to a boil. He tosses in a handful of salt, follows it with the pasta. “Why? Do you want it?” he says. 

Silence on the line.

“I thought it might be a good fit for your voice,” he says.

“The song that doesn’t have any lyrics yet?” she says. “You thought it would be a good fit for my voice?”

He laughs. “You know what I mean, asshole.”

Her answering laugh is high and quiet. A little shy. She’s nervous, he realizes. “Maybe, maybe not,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “Jonah and I officially broke up.”

“Oh.”

“Thus all the reporters camped outside of my lovely, lovely house.”

He snorts. “Thus. Fancy,” he says. “Are you okay?”

She takes a shaky breath. “Yeah, I mean—it wasn’t real, you know? We’re still going to be friends,” she says. “But we have to treat it like it’s real and that’s weird.”

“It’s part of the life, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I guess.”

“When are you going on tour?”

“Kicks off in a couple months,” she says. “I’ve got some time off and then we’re heading into rehearsal.”

“Really living it up.”

“You’re telling me to work less?” she says. “Try looking in the mirror lately?”

He laughs, and checks his pasta. Switching off the gas, he dumps it into a strainer and scoops it into a bowl, pouring olive oil and parmesan cheese on it before rattling through another drawer for a fork.

“You should send it to me,” she says.

“What?”

“The song you’re working on. Maybe I can help.”

He slurps a bite of noodle and chews quickly. “Maybe,” he mumbles.

“Are you eating?” she says.

“Yeah,” he says, through a mouthful of food. “I haven’t really eaten all day.”

“Jesus, Luke. You taking care of yourself?”

“Yeah, boss, don’t worry,” he says. The nickname slips out too easily, and they both let it settle. “You know how I get when I’m in the studio.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I remember. When are you going on tour?”

He hums. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s not international. Fifteen stops, clubs, mostly.”

“You could get a stadium if you wanted,” she says. “It just doesn’t fit your image.”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I couldn’t sell out a stadium alone.”

He can hear her eye roll. “Please,” she says. “If you see the messages I get sometimes…”

“What messages?”

“On social,” she says. “Whatever. You know, from the fans.”

“Yeah?” he says. “You should see the ones I get.”

“All right, old man,” she says. “It’s not a competition.”

“Who are you calling old?”

“Oh, sorry,” she teases. “You’re not old. You’re mature. How’s that?”

He laughs. “You’re such a brat.”

“Hey,” she says. “When you head out on tour…”

“Yeah?”

“Keep me posted,” she says. “I sectioned it out so I’m doing the Asian and European legs between two different NA runs. Maybe we could…”

His eyebrows raise, and he shovels a bite of pasta in his mouth. “Mmm?”

“Have a coffee or something,” she says. “Talk. In person.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

She snorts a laugh. “It’s kind of nice to know that your manners haven’t changed.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” he says, tearing a piece of paper towel to wipe at his mouth. 

“Take it however you want.”

“Hey, Jules?”

He can hear her quiet intake of breath, his jaw tightening as he realizes too late his mistake. But then, she says, “Yeah?”

“Um,” he says. “Why did you call this afternoon?”

“I guess I just…wanted to hear how you were doing,” she says. “To talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He can picture her chewing on her lip, her fingers fussing with anything nearby—tearing a napkin to shreds, bunching up a comforter over her legs, maybe.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been to that house—the one in the Palisades. He tries to picture her, surrounded by her books and her vinyl, maybe sitting on the floor with the TV on, face lit up in blue light. 

She never did like to turn the lights on.

“If we’re going to try,” she says, haltingly, “We should try. You know?”

“Yeah,” he says. “We should.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Send me the demo,” she says. “Even if you want to keep it for yourself, I can help.”

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah. Co-writers, right?” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Besides, I know you need all the help you can get.”

“Cold,” he says.

“It’s the truth.”

“I’m—uh—I’m sorry about Jonah,” he says. “That you have to deal with all of it.” He crumples the paper towel in his hand and chucks it in the empty pasta bowl. “But you can—you can talk to me, if you want. I’m here.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“And I, uh…”

“Yeah?” she whispers into the phone.

 _I miss you_ , he wants to say. 

_I want you_ , he means to say.

“I, uh—I missed this,” he says. “Talking to you like this. Having you back in my life.”

And her breath is sharp and unmistakable now over the line. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Am I keeping you up?”

“No,” she says. “No, it’s fine. I’m not doing—I'm just watching tv in bed. If I fall asleep, you can hang up on me.”

He chuckles. “Thanks for the permission.”

“Shut up,” she says. “Tell me what you’re working on.”

“It’s all bullshit,” he says. “Tell me about the tour.”

“You first, asshole.”

Forty-five minutes later, he can hear when she nods off on the line, her breathing evening out low and quiet with a soft snore.

He listens for a few seconds. 

“Good night,” he whispers. 

She whistles a snore.

  
Every goodbye, it seems like he’s watching her sleep. 

He can’t count how long he watched her sleep on their lone night in Cleveland, her hair fanned out against the pillow, her cheeks pinked, skin glowing. That night that he missed her down to his bones, aching for her even with her there beside him, keeping him warm. She’s never looked as calm as she does in sleep, every line relaxed, everything about her touched with softness.

And it felt worse that time around, worse than it did the night that he left in Prague, because he knew exactly what the consequences were. Even before she walked into his arms, half-naked and beautiful, and left his entire body so open with wanting her that it hurt, he knew exactly how it would end.

It didn’t make any of it easier: the choice, the aftermath.

He’s never been able to say no to her. 

That night, he laid awake after she drifted off and traced his fingers along the edge of her skin, trying to memorize it all. The sight of her in bed beside him, the feeling of her skin against his, the way that she breathed his name, the heat they generated when they came together. It had been impossible to think about walking away from her again, but the funny thing about karma is that sometimes it gives you exactly what you wished for once at the worst possible time.

He leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder, committing her taste to memory, and knew that it wouldn’t ever be the same. That it wouldn’t ever be like this again. That they weren’t really here, that it wasn’t really them, but a shadow of whatever ghost of them hadn’t gone quietly into the good night all of those years ago. Sometimes, he thinks, it takes one last time to let something die; and no matter what he wanted, he knew that he owed her that—the right to end things. The right to closure.

But looking at her in bed that night, her legs tangled with his, that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to reopen everything, to tear all of their old wounds apart, for the chance at something as small, as regrettable, as chasing his own happiness. He wanted to lose himself in her again, to throw himself at her mercy for the last few years as long as she wouldn’t walk out of his life.

But he knew then that there were things that he had long ago given up the right to control—and their relationship had been one of them. 

So he took what he could get: the sight of her in bed, the softness of her hair moving against him as she slept, the quiet mumble of his name as she shifted in bed. The feeling of her hand reaching for his. 

He held her in his arms that night, and pretended that he wouldn’t ever have to let go.

  
Learning to write with her was like learning how to fall in love. It’s always different with a new partner no matter how many times you've done it before.

It’s not like the reporters or the fans think it is, that love changed them or made him better, that they started thinking of each other as things to fold into their music or their story as part of the fabric of what the Phantoms was. They were never a part of the music; the music was just a part of them. 

Even when he was writing with the boys, it was never like it was with her. Alex and Reggie wrote like they played, straightforward and direct, clear about what they were working towards, pushing back against his ideas when they thought he needed it. But music for Julie was like what it was for him, something more than an idea, something closer to faith that they were always chasing down and knowing they’d never be able to catch. They were kids scooping fireflies into empty jars, chasing the glow wherever it would take them.

Even then, they’ve never liked to share anything until it’s close to being ready. They’ve always guarded the music they work on until it reaches some point when it’s no longer so close, when it can stand on its own two feet. It isn’t that it’s about their own lives or that it’s too close to what they have—he’s never liked to write about himself, never liked to touch on his own personal story in the lyrics—but that the music has never been exactly what he first heard in his head.

But Julie—Julie brings the light and the music wherever she goes. Catching snippets of whatever she’s working on has always made him feel like he’s glimpsed something he wasn’t supposed to, like he’s gotten away with smuggling something valuable. She’s always liked to impose an order onto a process stripped bare of it, and he knows that for all that she insists on her sheet paper and her lists, her notebooks full of throwaway lines that she wants to use in one song or another, her half-finished ideas, the real storm is inside her head. And there’s no organizing that.

But she tries. She puts pen to paper, she sits at the piano for hours and runs through the same ten bars over and over until it’s clean, until she feels like she’s hit some kind of breakthrough. Julie’s the kind of writer that likes to touch too much, that handles something until it’s overdone and nearly breaking with all of the finessing that she’s tried to do to get it to be perfect. (He’s never believed in perfect; he’s only ever believed in whole. Does it make you feel like a finished thing? Does it touch something inside of you, close a loop somewhere?) She labels everything, assigns names, schedules blocks of time, breaks it out by instrument, by track, until it feels like they’re building a machine more than anything else.

It gives her comfort, he thinks, to know that there’s a process, that there are set instructions that she can follow to make something beautiful.

But for all that she believes in the order of the process, she’s never liked to write in the studio. Lay a track, record, do another run—sure. But for writing? It’s the kitchen counter and the living room floor, it’s his side of the bed, the pillows propped up against the headboard, the laptop in front of her, glowing blue in her face while she listens to the vocal track she tried. She writes like a woman possessed, picking at a guitar line while she’s waiting for the water to boil on the stove. Music thrived for her in the crevices between the agonies and nags of living—the laundry, dinner, the grocery shopping, the bills, those late-night hours when everything is quiet and the house feels almost sanctified. He can still see her standing over the kitchen sink, one foot curled around the opposite calf, humming while she peeled sweet potatoes. Even then, the sheet paper was on the island behind her, next to the cutting board, covered with drips of oil, of water, of whatever she had gotten her hands into. 

He couldn’t imagine how to write without her those first months after the break, because writing with her hadn’t just been writing; it had been this love, it had been that life, it had been the way the sunlight fell across her bare back in the early morning while she made coffee and hummed what would be the bridge of another song. Those first months without her had been unbearable, full of nothing but dry toast and old pizza, the stale morning-after of vodka and too little to eat and a house full of nothing.

It took her leaving to get him to think about writing some of it out, the pain and the feelings that he didn’t have words for, the words that he never had a chance to tell her and the things he didn’t know he wanted to say. But there are songs, and then there are songs for other people, and he’s never felt comfortable dragging the latter to being the former. Sometimes all he needs is for the person that needs to hear it to hear it. Nobody else.

He’s never liked to put words in her mouth. Everything he wrote for her was something he felt himself, or another kind of story—something simple and narrative, heartbreak underneath the boardwalk on a summer evening, chasing a sunrise across the highway. But when he sits down on his sofa with his guitar, he can feel the feather touch of her hair grazing against his face, the soft rasp of her deep laugh, the one that she seems to save for private moments.

He strums along a chord, steady and supported like the thrum of a river current. 

They’ve turned a fresh page, he thinks, and he doesn’t want to waste another word.

  
She’s never felt less excited to go on the road. 

Getting ready for a tour means endless lists from Amy about who to talk to, who to reach out to, who to hire, what to approve, what to choose, what to wear, what to rehearse. Usually, she appreciates the chance to disappear into the work and the character—to think about building a world for her fans, for the album, to think about what’s next. But for the first time in months, she’d rather curl up on her couch at home and sit in the dark, disappear back into her dad’s house and not see the world for weeks. But contracts are contracts, and there’s no turning back.

She’s never liked to stop and think about it, anyway.

She’s never liked to stop.

The costume samples come in stacks of boxes straight from the tailor, waiting for her sign-off, and there’s a late rehearsal with the choreographer at the studio to review what they’ve built out so far. And then it’s straight into tour tech—the weeks of endless rehearsal with the dancers they’ve picked for the road, with the band, with her music techs, figuring out the final set list, the final stage changes, and running through it until she knows it as well as she knows her own name.

She’s always loved disappearing into the road—losing herself to the grueling schedule of work, feeling the boundaries between Julie Molina and (just) Julie dissolve in those months, carving out a space for herself in hidden pockets on the tour bus, writing through whatever she isn’t thinking about into skeletal songs for the next album. Going on the road has always meant a break from real life, escaping into the bright show lights and the fantasy of the album for months at a time. It’s always meant being unreachable, chasing some vision of herself and her own life across the world and collapsing every town into the same place, the same memory, the same dream. How similar the towns all feel at night, soaking in the black of the evening, quiet and subdued. How close the world feels when it all sinks into those three or six midnight, early morning hours between stops, the bus rolling on and on and creating its own sense of time.

But the last thing she wants now is to take it on the run. She wants to buckle down in her apartment, wants to plant roots with the people who know her, wants to convince herself that she still remembers who she is—because Cleveland hasn’t been that long ago, and maybe she wasn’t the person that she always imagined she was. Maybe the person that remembers Luke, the person that Luke and Alex and Reggie remember, is somebody different, somebody who isn’t always chasing some dream of moving forward, going further, going farther, from album to album, town to town, man to man. Maybe it’s been a long time since she’s thought about that girl and what she wants, because everything she wanted once or twice has come back in some way to bless her and hurt her at the same time.

She’s always been good at giving people what they’ve wanted from her, being who they think she is. But she’s starting to feel tired of holding the fraying threads of her life in her hands, braiding and unbraiding them over and over again like Penelope at the loom. She’s never let herself pause, never given herself an opportunity to look back, because it’s never been safe, because thinking about things she can’t change is just opening herself up to being hurt again.

But when she thinks about going on the road now, not talking to Flynn or her family or the boys for the next few months, disappearing into nothing but the work and the shiny glow of Julie Molina, it’s the last thing she wants. Maybe something’s shifted while she wasn’t paying attention, and she isn’t the person she thought she was all these years.

Maybe looking back means seeing just how much she’s changed since then, how much her vision of the world and what she wants has changed too.

Maybe she's tired.

But for now, there’s boxes of sequined jumpsuits and glittery flapper dresses, spangly like tinsel, soft and shimmery in her hands. She sifts through it, piece by piece, and excavates herself out of the glitter.

  
Flynn’s waiting for her outside her house when she pulls up after a long day of dress rehearsal. She’s sweating through her clothes, all of her muscles aching, but at least there’s one thing she can cross off her list. Flynn stands as she pulls into her parking spot, switches the car off, and pops out.

“You’re late,” Flynn says, running to wrap her in a hug.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, locking the car as she heads up towards the front door. “Rehearsal went over. We were trying to figure out if we were keeping this one bit.”

It’s the closest thing they have to a tradition—what used to be a send-off week has become a send-off dinner or whatever they can squeeze in between Flynn’s conferences, a sleepover if her husband can stand to miss her for that much time. They used to drink and stay up late, watch movies if they could remember to, but what Julie remembers—what Julie loves—is how much they stay up talking. It makes her feel like she’s back in her own life, like they’re still in high school and figuring it all out. Like it’s okay for her to still be figuring it out.

They order more sushi than they can possibly eat, Flynn cracking open a few bottles of wine that she’d brought and pouring them their first glasses. 

“I can’t believe you’re going back on the road already.”

Julie takes a long draught of her wine. “It’s not going to be that bad,” she says. “And I’m not leaving for a while. I’ll only be gone a couple of months.”

“Oh, only a couple of months?” Flynn cracks, shoveling pieces of sushi onto her plate. “Maybe it’s not out of line to think about taking a break instead of doing another forty-stop world tour.”

Julie shrugs, and takes a piece of a salmon roll. “When this is over…”

“When this is over, you’re just going to go back to doing as you usually do,” Flynn says. “I know how this works.”

“Ye of little faith.”

Flynn jabs at the ends of her chopsticks with her own. “Please,” she says. “Me of knowing you too long.”

At the beginning, they would make wish lists or write down her hopes for the tour and bury them in little pits in her yard. At the beginning, they would stay up all night and talk about what she hoped to see, what she hoped to get out of it, how she would keep in touch. Over the years, it’s become another thing that they’ve both grown into—distance and separation and the repetition of the work. She doesn’t flash pieces of their secret handshake before she goes into certain songs, doesn’t shout out quite as many people as she used to, but she still likes to take a moment before she steps out on stage to think of all the people she’s left behind and take them on stage with her in whatever way she can.

“You going to call me from the road?”

“I’ll try if the time zones aren’t too bad.”

“You better,” Flynn says.

Julie leans against her shoulder, tipping her head back against the side of Flynn’s head.

Flynn shrugs her off. “Get off of me,” she grumbles.

There was a time at the beginning when Julie worried that they might not be able to make it—that Flynn, with her husband, with her future, maybe with kids, wouldn’t want to stay along for the insanity of the Julie ride. But Flynn’s always been ride or die, there for her whenever she’s needed her, asking nothing more than what she’s always asked of Julie—honesty, a listening ear, patience. Some days Julie wonders if Flynn knows just how much she’s given her over the years.

Her phone buzzes six times against the counter, notifications cycling up on her screen.

Flynn clicks her tongue, snatching the phone up out of her grasp before she even thinks to reach for it.

Julie takes another piece of sushi, sucks on the ends of her chopsticks, while Flynn reads whatever she’s looking at and sets it back down on the counter.

“So we have a lot to talk about, I see,” Flynn says.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s texting you now?” she says. “You’re texting?”

Julie reaches for another piece of sushi, shoves it in her mouth and chews, mumbling a half-baked thought around her bite.

“Mmmhmm,” Flynn says. “You know damn well you don’t have an answer. What happened in Cleveland? Well, what _didn’t_ happen in Cleveland?”

She snatches the phone from Flynn's hand and scrolls through. It’s a series of short text messages, a couple of key signatures, a couple of inscrutable strings of letters that probably make sense in context, a couple of texts making small talk. “We’re just…”

Flynn’s eyebrows raise. “Picking up where you left off?”

She clicks off the phone, and sets it back down. “We’re not picking anything.”

Flynn reaches for her hand and squeezes it. “Jules, it’s me,” she says. “You can tell me anything.” At her silence, she adds, “Whatever you want, I just want you to be happy. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She blinks up at her. “I want things to be different,” she says. “They feel different. But I can’t tell if it’s…real, you know?”

She nods, her eyes wide with understanding.

“We had a chance to…talk,” she says.

“You had a chance to do more than talk,” Flynn chirps.

“…and I think he’s serious about wanting to mend the fences.”

“Is that something that you want?”

She swallows a sip of wine. “Yeah,” she says. “I think so. He was my best friend.”

Flynn chooses to say nothing.

“And apart from…what happened,” she says, “We’re taking it slow. We’re not…acting like we’re going back into anything. We’re…testing the waters. Being friendly.”

Flynn presses her lips together and nods once. “Okay,” she says.

Julie looks at her, brows furrowed. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Flynn says. “If that’s what you’re telling me, and that’s what you want, then…okay.”

“Really?”

Flynn bumps her hard. “Julie, I love you,” she says. “Whatever makes you happy makes you happy. I can’t tell you anything. Just _be honest_ with me. With yourself. And stop trying to hide from yourself.”

She nods, draining the rest of her glass of wine.

“And what do I know,” she says. “Maybe he’ll be able to get you to take care of yourself. Lord knows I’ve tried.”

She rolls her eyes. “All right,” she says. “Get it all out of your system.”

Flynn gives an exaggerated sigh, throwing her arms up towards the sky, and Julie laughs.

  
In the morning, Rodney brings her the week’s mail along with a bubble-wrapped parcel that arrived by courier from Amy’s office. She brings it all into the kitchen and spends her first few cups of coffee tearing them all open.

The parcel has a tape in it, a blocky cassette with masking tape as a label and a scrawl of permanent marker on the side. She’d recognize the handwriting anywhere. PARALLAX, scribbled in big caps.

There’s a folded up piece of notebook paper tucked in beside the tape in the envelope, and she unfolds it to find a brief note.

_i don’t know what you’re thinking for the next album, but i know you must already be thinking about it. i think this might be a good one for you. listen, tell me what you think. L._

She picks up the cassette and taps its edge against the kitchen counter twice before deciding to call him. He picks up on the third ring.

“Did you listen to it?” he says, by way of greeting.

“Yo, man,” she says. “You think I have the stuff to play this in my house?”

“You have a studio, don’t you?” he says. “I read that somewhere.”

She laughs. “You read about me?”

“Shut up. Sometimes.”

“I have a studio here, yeah, I don’t have the old school shit you like to use,” she says. “I don’t have anything that can play a fucking tape. Can’t you just send me the raw files?”

He groans. “Where’s your sense of artistry?”

“In the fucking ‘90s?” she says. “I don’t know. You’re telling me Alex and Reggie have this kind of equipment in their house?”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah. They’re professionals.”

“Luke, no due respect, but when are you going to come into this century?”

“When it sounds as good as the shit from last century.”

She groans, shoving the tape in her purse and marching for the door. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting ready for a tour or anything.”

“Jesus,” he says, and a series of clanging noises comes through over the speaker. “Let me see if I can send you the mix.”

“Thank you.”

“But you should listen to it on tape,” he says. “I mastered it for tape.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I heard that,” he says.

  
She hasn’t been to Alex’s in at least half a year, but she can still remember the way. He’s always liked the water, and his house is right on the beach, sleek and modern looking. She texts if he’s home (he is), if he’s doing anything (he’s not), and checks if he has the equipment that she needs to play the fucking tape (he thinks he does), which is good enough reason to turn up.

Alex and Reggie both meet her when she pulls up, Reggie dressed like it isn’t seventy degrees outside, Alex barely even dressed at all, a terry bathrobe tied around his waist. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for a tour?” Alex says.

She brushes a kiss against his cheek and heads towards the front door. “You sound like my manager.”

“Well, yeah,” Alex says. “Julie Molina missing a deadline?”

She turns towards them, waiting by the front door. “Julie Molina missing nothing,” she says. “Just taking a detour.”

Alex’s Frenchies greet them at the door, yapping at her ankles in search of snacks.

“We can go to the studio,” Alex says, ushering them inside and shutting the door behind them. “For your super secret business.”

“It’s not super secret anything,” she says. “Where’s Willie?”

Alex waves his hand. “Sleeping, probably.”

Reggie comes up behind her and slings an arm over her shoulders. “You excited to go on the road?”

She shrugs. “I think I’d like being at home for a while,” she says.

“That _sounds_ like she’s excited,” Alex chirps.

Reggie squeezes her shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.”

“I’m not dying,” she says.

She always forgets how impressive Alex’s studio is—all warm with light woods, instruments everywhere, and a recording booth nestled inside. When he shuts the door behind them, she can hear the weight of it as it clicks into place and then it’s just them—buffeted by the air in the room, the open acoustics. She almost wants to sing a line to hear how it sounds.

There are drums everywhere, a handful of electric and bass guitars, and some keyboards and synths. 

Reaching into her purse, she pulls free the cassette and shakes it in her hand.

“Oooh,” Alex hums. “I recognize that.”

Reggie gives Alex a meaningful look.

“I didn’t have anything in my house that could play it,” she says. “And he didn’t have the raw files to send to me.”

Alex snatches the tape from her hand and glances quickly at the masking tape label. “He doesn’t believe in things being easy.”

“What does that say?” Reggie says.

Alex taps his finger against the cassette as they head into the listening area outside the recording booth. “Parallax,” he says, with a quick flash of the eyebrows.

“Ah,” Reggie says. “What does that mean?”

Alex looks at her, and she shrugs. He shrugs after that, and loads the tape into the machine.

She collapses onto the long sofa and leans her head back against the wall. It’s been so long since they’ve listened to something raw like this together—not since they stopped recording as a band. She swallows, shaking her head as she settles in to listen. The tape pops and clicks as it starts and then she hears his voice read out the song title and the take number.

There’s two lapping guitar parts and the buzzy hum of a bass in the foreground running through. It’s chunky and frantic in the way that his early stuff sounded, cut through with the soft melody of his vocals.

“He loves a plural guitar part,” Alex mumbles.

She bops her head to the beat as she listens to him sing the melody line.

He vocalizes through most of the melody, but when he hits the chorus, he sings through the lyrics he has.

_so you’re looking down, looking around_   
_checking the mirrors for what to do_   
_adjusting your crown, finally found_   
_losing sight of the rearview_   
_do what you always said you would do_   
_leave it behind for somebody new_   
_pouring gold right into the cracks_   
_and know that you can find me_   
_waiting in the parallax_

Alex leans back in his seat, spinning to look at her, while she closes her eyes and listens to the rest of the instrumental track.

As it finishes, she sighs and opens her eyes. “Thanks,” she says.

Alex crosses his arms over his chest. “So what happened? He’s writing for you now?”

She shrugs. “We were talking,” she says. “And I think he misses writing with other people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so do I,” she says. “I want to write with you guys more. I miss working with you, and I want to do it more.”

“You want to move away from your new disco thing?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I don’t know. Maybe. Something. Something different.”

“So what exactly happened in Cleveland?” Reggie says, glancing at her.

“We should punch this up,” she says.

Reggie and Alex glance at each other. “Is it…done happening?” Alex says.

“I don’t know,” she says.

Another heavy glance passes between the two of them.

“One thing at a time,” she says. “Want to write on this track with us?”

Alex clicks his tongue and tosses his head. “Let me make a copy,” he says. He rewinds the tape and feeds another tape into another deck, and then there’s a loud click and both start rolling. 

“Is that a yes?” she says, grinning.

“You _obviously_ need our help,” Alex says.

“All right,” Reggie says. “So next thing, what happened?”

“We’re just talking,” she says. “We’re…figuring out if we can be friends.”

“Friends,” Reggie says, with a slight tinge of disbelief. “The two of you.”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Okay,” Alex and Reggie both intone. 

The tapes start clicking, and Alex presses a few buttons and then hands her the cassette tape. She takes it and tosses it back in her handbag. “Can you send it to me as a file?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Give me until tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Reggie leans his head against her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you okay?” he says. “Cleveland, and now this, and going back out on the road? Writing again? That’s a lot of change.”

“You sound like my therapist,” she says.

Reggie nods slowly. “It’s because I’m emotionally mature.”

She laughs.

“You want me to work a drum track for you?” Alex says.

“Whatever you want,” she says. “I don’t know. I just wanted to see what he set up.”

“You didn’t answer the question, you know,” Reggie says.

She brightens. “I’m good,” she says. “Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”

Alex blinks. “We’re in my house.”

“You want a pizza or something?” she says. “Tacos?”

Reggie groans. “Pizza!” he shouts.

She points at him. “See?” she says. “He gets it.”

“So you missed us, huh?” Alex says. “Miss our talent and exceptional taste?”

She reaches for his hand and pulls him closer to the two of them. “I think sometimes when you try very hard, you can write a good song.”

He leans his head against the crown of hers, nuzzling his nose against the shell of her ear. “Awww,” he screeches. “You missed us!”

She giggles. 

  
She texts him back: _no lyrics?_

_i figured you’d want to write those._

_but a chorus?_

_every song needs a chorus_ , he responds. _what did you think?_

_i think i want to play with it_

_okay_

_and stop sending me tapes_ , she writes. _digital only, baby_

 _i’m going to send you a pro build_ , he replies. _fidelity!!!_

The last weeks before a tour starts are the worst. She’s constantly running through her list of tasks, sure that she’s forgotten something, that there’s something they’ll figure out halfway into the run that she’s left behind. She packs and unpacks her luggage about twelve times, cleans out her fridge and her cabinets, checks all of her equipment and security systems. 

Flynn likes to tell her that she focuses on the wrong thing, that home will be fine if she leaves it, that she has a key if anything happens (and so does Carlos, and so does her dad, and so do Alex and Reggie), but she can’t help but think that when she leaves a place, it has the potential to change when she isn’t looking, that she could come back to find it completely different, broken down, neglected. 

Too many fairy tales, that’s what Flynn thinks.

When they used to live together, the four of them, she would always stay up late packing and triple-checking everything, and they would always wake her up and shoo her out towards the car or the bus first thing. You don’t get any more checks, Alex would say, blocking the doorway, while Luke was inside, scrounging up who-knew-what and turning off what else, shutting and locking the door behind him and refusing to let her inside for anything. The Julie window, they called it—the 72 hours before the day they left.

And the night before they left, Luke would always plug her phone in on his side of the bed and promise to wake her in the morning. They would lie in bed together, awake sometimes into the middle of the night, and talk about what they imagined it would be like—what they hoped for the tour, what they were writing, the cities they were excited to visit. 

_Tell me one thing you want to see when we’re there_ , he’d ask.

_Tell me what you’re excited about._

He would always tell her not to plan so much that she forgot to enjoy herself on the journey there.

She doesn’t remember how she answered. All she knows is that all that mattered was that they got to do it together—that she could see it with him, that she could share it with some of the people she loved the most.

  
When she calls him, he’s halfway through packing. He’s never liked to pack until the last possible second, and even now, it’s usually just tossing loose items in a suitcase and hoping he has enough of the essentials (socks, underwear) to last him through the length of tour. And even if he runs out, it's not like there isn't a Target or a Walmart within five miles of anywhere in the country. He balls up the pair of socks in his hand and chucks it on top of the other clothes strewn over the suitcase.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey. Is this a good time?” 

He takes a seat on the edge of his mattress. “Yeah. What’s up?”

She exhales over the line, quiet for a moment. “Nothing, really,” she says. “You’re going on tour soon, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You caught me in the middle of packing. Is it something important? You want to talk about the song?”

She chuckles. “You’re packing to go on the road for your album, and you want to talk about the song?”

“If you want.”

“I played it for the boys,” she says. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” he says.

“I don’t know. I just thought I’d check.”

“Aren’t you going on tour soon?” 

“Yeah.”

“Are you packing?”

She sighs loudly, and he can picture her too clearly. Sitting on the edge of her bed, maybe, or more likely camped out in the middle of her living room, surrounded by suitcases. Five or six, maybe, plus whatever extra outfits she has planned for stage. He remembers watching her pace through the house, chewing on a nail, hunting through the closets for things that she forgot, comparing pieces until he felt like half of her things were just lying out on a piece of furniture. 

“Jules?”

“Done,” she says. “Mostly.”

“I know what that ‘mostly’ means.”

“I hate this part,” she says.

“I know.”

“Yeah,” she says.

He never understood why she got so wrapped up before the start of tour. As soon as she’s on the road, she’s fine, more than fine, wrapped up in everything she has to do. But it’s the packing and the leaving that makes her nervous and frantic, unable to sleep, pacing through the house like something’s chasing after her. In the weeks leading up to tour, she’d start to obsess over the details and then, everything else would fall into place. By the last few days before they headed out, she was barely speaking to the rest of them, buried in her lists, constantly going through the things that she’d already done to make sure that she had done it properly.

He wonders if she’s changed over the years, or if it’s still a nervous habit for her the night before she takes to the road.

“Where’s your first stop?” he says. 

“Radio City.”

He grins. “Right,” he says. “I should have expected.”

“What about you?”

“Phoenix,” he says.

They fall into silence on the line, and he hums for want of anything to say. New York’s always been her kind of town, busy and buzzy, colorful and direct. He can’t remember half the places they went to when they were last there—together, he means—but he hopes she still finds time to carve out in the day for herself.

“Doing the morning shows while you’re in New York?”

“Late night,” she says. “A couple.”

“Let me know when you’re on,” he says. “I’ll try and catch it.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

“So what are you packing?”

He stammers through the items that he’s gone through, calling up the impromptu list from the back of his mind while she tries not to laugh on the line. “You didn’t really call to help me pack, though, did you?” he says.

“No,” she says. “But god knows you need it.”

“So why…”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, I guess,” she says. “I know how you can get before tour.”

“I know how _you_ can get before tour.”

She sniffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Just…” he starts, “Promise me that you’ll try to do something for yourself in every town you’re in. Take yourself out or take a walk or something.”

“How do you know I don’t?”

He takes in a breath. “I don’t,” he says. “Except that you don’t really talk about it.”

She hums, and he listens to her breathe over the line. “Yeah,” she says.

“You’ve done it a million times,” he says. “You’re going to be fine. More than fine. You just need to get out of your house first.”

She laughs. “What, right now?”

In another universe, he thinks, maybe he would have asked her to come over and talk in person, taken her hands in his and offered whatever comfort he could. But he’s in Utah, and she’s hours away, and he has to remember that what he wanted was the comfort of this distance. What he wanted was to give her the space that she needed. “Before the tour,” he says. “You get stir-crazy inside the house, and that’s when you start unpacking and repacking for no reason.”

“There’s a reason.”

“There’s _no_ reason,” he says, “Except that it makes you feel better.”

“That’s a reason.”

“That’s a stupid reason.”

She sniffs. “Says the man packing without a list.”

“How do you…”

“Because,” she says, and he can picture how wide her smile is, “I know you. I mean, I know—I _knew_ —how you were.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You know me.”

“Yeah. Maybe I do.”

“So, come on,” he says, “What are you excited about?”

He knows she’s rolling her eyes. “Luke.”

“Come on,” he repeats. “We’re packing, neither of us sound thrilled to be going on tour, you’ve got to find something.”

“Why?”

He scoffs as he rises to his feet and heads toward his dresser, the drawers pulled out and leaning open. “Because,” he says. “Because there should be something to look forward to. And because it’s tradition.”

“Okay, so what are you looking forward to?”

He rummages through a drawer and pulls free a handful of shirts and adds them to the growing pile on top of the open suitcase. “Playing music again,” he says.

“In Phoenix. Specifically.”

“Camelback,” he says. “Take a day to go hiking, maybe.”

She scoffs. “You are _not_ going to go hiking on the road,” she says. “You’re going to wake up in the middle of the afternoon, eat some hot dogs, and maybe go see a museum.”

“Wow,” he says. “ _Wow_.”

“Just being honest.”

“So what about you?”

She squeaks, and he can see her pacing back and forth, her free hand on her hip as she searches for the words.

After another few seconds of silence, he says, “How about this?”

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you pick me up a souvenir?” he says. “Something small, something tacky.”

“Tacky,” she repeats.

“The tackier the better,” he says. “And finding it can be what you look forward to.”

“Shopping for you is always what I look forward to, Luke,” she deadpans.

“Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” he says. “But at least you can look for something.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

There’s a soft pause on the line. “What are you going to get me?” 

He bites his lip as he considers. “What do you want?”

“Something pretty.”

“Okay,” he says. “Something pretty.”

“Okay,” she says, and her voice goes soft and airy again. Unsure around the edges. 

He tries not to think of her sitting in her bedroom, in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, hair loose and messy down her back.

He wishes he didn’t remember what it felt like to touch her so casually then, to run his hand through her hair or to nuzzle against her neck for something to do. Because he could never stand not touching her.

“Now, about the song…” he says.

She laughs, bright and high and ringing. “Jesus, you never know how to let things go, do you?”

He grins, his cheeks pinching. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

(In Phoenix, he gets her a small cactus and a polished piece of sandstone. Ships it to her manager’s office because he doesn’t know where else to send it, scribbling a note and tossing it into the flat rate box. _don’t needle me_ , he writes.

Months later, when he returns home, he finds from New York: a cheap Chinese paper fan and a BK cap. A post-it tucked in the box with her home address scribbled on it. _You could have asked._ )

  
He doesn’t like to spend too much time on the road anymore.

Ten years ago, younger, healthier, that’s a different story. But now? He likes to think he knows better, that he’s learned the hard lessons of spending too much time away from home and confusing who he is on tour for who he really is, blurring the real world with the one on stage. When he was younger, it didn’t matter—the bright lights, the noise of the crowd, the attention, the love, all of it fed into who he was and what he wanted to do. But he’s learned how quickly that love can fade, how thin it is when everything wears down to the bone.

He doesn’t like to tempt fate anymore. (Not really.) So he goes out for six, maybe eight weeks at a time and takes a two-week break. Goes home, plays with his dogs, talks to his manager and his parents and reminds himself that life exists in his house, in those moments, in the real conversations and the stupid little things like paying his bills and fixing his car.

They all have their reasons for leaving it sooner or later. He’s heard stories filter through from other artists—people get married, people settle down, people get tired of having to overhaul their lives to travel for months at a time, eating shitty food, sleeping in hotels, hopping flights. It’s less glamorous than people think, like being back in middle school and shuffling from class to class except the thing that separates the stops isn’t hallways, but oceans. Even Alex and Reggie are starting to slow down—they’re older, slower, they miss their homes, they miss their lives. The road is for people running from things, or lying to themselves about it. It isn’t permanent.

He’s learned from his mistakes. He chooses the venues now, lets Michael do all the negotiations about rates, fees, producers, picks his own hotel. They figure out the travel together, and he prefers the buses to the planes—though fewer people recognize him in the airport than they used to. He doesn’t like to feel segregated from the world; he wants to be part of it. So the more of that the better—no private planes, no back entrances, no anything. He takes the stage door, same as everyone else.

He prefers it—the heavy weight of the door, the smell of instrument oil and grease, the way all stages are, in some ways, the same, even when they’re different.

And the stadiums?—a thing of the past. He likes to be able to see people’s faces when he sings to them. Touring is about sharing his music, he thinks. More than it is about the money or the promotions or supporting the album—it’s about seeing how his music touches people and getting to glimpse into their lives and their souls when they’re dancing or swaying in the crowd, singing his words back at him. 

That’s the feeling he likes to hold onto.

  
He has his routines on tour: usually, he’ll set up a nightly call with someone; hot tea with lemon and honey, with whiskey too if he’s feeling under the weather; try to visit or do one or two new things in whatever town he’s in; watch the opener; and camp out in the hotel. He prefers cheap Chinese take-out to room service, and he likes to walk around the city at happy hour when people aren’t looking too closely at his face. 

There usually isn’t much to miss. When there were girlfriends, he would miss them or they would tag along, and he’d fill his nights with the blue light of their faces coming through the phone, talking to him about their days, the things they cared about. He’s never liked to feel like life is on pause when he’s on the road, even though that’s exactly what happens. Everyone moves on, moves forward, keeps going, and he tracks around in circles doing the same thing night after night.

Some people like to write on the road, and his back-up band will usually send him stuff to listen to, demos and experiments that they want feedback on. But when he’s on the road, he doesn’t like to listen to anything else, doesn’t like to think about anything other than where his head should be for the album that he’s playing. _Be On Your Way_ is a different turn from what he usually writes—less percussive, more reflective, a lone piano in a log cabin kind of thing. It’s shorter for one thing, quieter, but it makes him think of buying the house out in Park City, camping out near the mountains, away from the life that he once chased and wanted, away from the people who convinced him that he was ever anything but himself.

On good days, he likes to think that his fans see what he’s trying to do and understand him and accept him for who he is. He likes to think that he doesn’t have to pretend anymore, not like the days of the bright lights and the red carpet and the constant glossy interviews where he lied through his teeth about what he liked, what he listened to, and who he admired. There’s no teeth to any of it, he thinks, that part of the business. And the further away he can stay away from it, the better. He prefers the black boxes, the small compact rooms where hundreds of people squeeze in to listen to how he breathes a particular line.

It’s not like when he was with _Sunset Curve_ , young and desperate to prove himself, and it’s not like it was when he was with the Phantoms, trying to build himself something that would outlast him. He’s got smaller ambitions now, something that strikes closer to wanting to carve out a life that he can be proud of, make work that he can stand by, and not have to defend himself and his choices like he’s living on trial.

But the road is an easy seducer, especially late when the tour bus is quiet and the passing blur of the towns they’re driving through are nothing more than a backdrop for the silence and his thoughts. It’s those moments when she comes to him, the memory of her anyway, little things that strike his memory, and then in wider strokes—how she leaned against the table in the tour bus, how she’d curl up in her bunk to make space for him to creep in later, how she always tried to work on the next song, the next album, the next project when they were touring.

 _You can’t think too much about this one_ , she’d say. _You lose yourself in the trees._

But that’s the point of music, he thinks. To lose yourself and find yourself, sometimes at the same time.

  
_i’m not calling this song parallax_ , she texts him. _i’m fixing this._

He nudges the blinds aside and eyes a passing highway sign. _what do you mean fixing?_

She sends him three texts in quick succession, each with a different chord progression. _what do you think???_

_a little country_

_who are you calling country???_ , she responds. _and country isn’t a bad thing_

_didn’t say it was. pls chill_

_i am not letting you write a 23 minute song_

He leans his head against the glass. _yeah? what are you going to let me do?_

_keep you from lukeing this up_

He coughs a laugh into his hand. _whatever you say, jefe_

_where are you?_

_on the road, heading to colorado. where are you?_

_st. paul_ , she sends. _a couple nights._

He thinks of her wrapped in one of the hotel robes, TV on for noise, pacing back and forth. Her hair’d be down around her shoulders, the curls shaggy and loose, soft. _you should sleep_ , he texts. _i know how you get._

 _can’t_ , she replies.

_want to talk about it?_

He watches the three dots animate as she types, and types, and types. And then his phone is buzzing in his hand, her name flashing up on the screen.

He takes the call.

It’s late and he talks with his voice low, trying not to wake anyone else on the bus. Her voice is warm, like she’s happy to hear from him, but with the same thread of tired that he always hears in her voice these days. It comes back to him slowly—the details of how to talk to her, when to ask questions, when to stay silent, when to move on—but it feels comfortable and familiar, like finding an old sweater still fits. A little tighter in the arms, maybe, a little itchier than you might remember, but still comfortable, still what you imagined.

Her voice drops lower the sleepier she gets, and then they’re just whispering to each other over the phone. And the world is dark and quiet outside, and the bus feels empty and silent, and it’s like they’re sitting on the edge of her bed and talking. 

Talking about nothing really, about the shows and the set lists and the things they left at home, but still talking.

Neither of them say good night.

  
On the bus, on the good days, they would never have any distance between them. Even before they were anything, she would crawl up into his bunk, her legs dangling off of the edge, just to talk or to write, or to talk about what she was writing. He tried to make space for her where he could, but there wasn’t much of it to go around. There’d be the careless brush of a hand, the casual bump of a knee, but she never seemed bothered by it.

And no matter how much he tried to tell her that he didn’t like writing on the bus, she wouldn’t hear it. 

_It’s the only time I can really think_ , she’d say, gathering her hair into her hands. 

The bus would be quiet then, the purring hum of the engine underneath them and the whir of the highway passing at night, Alex’s halting snore, and no matter what they’d done that day or how late they had been up at the night before, she was never tired. She’d get that look in her eyes—something bright and sparking—that meant that she wasn’t going to sleep any time soon, not until she’d written out whatever was on her mind.

He still remembers all of those times when he fell asleep and stirred awake half an hour later to find his arms full of her, her warmth tucked against his as she dozed, the world hazy at the edges. It was all friendly, they liked to say, an accidental nap between friends, a writing session dragged on a little too long, and nothing more. Nothing other than the magic of a late night, a world quieted by its own exhaustion, the passing flicker of the highway lights like the twinkle of stars. 

And when she sang for him, it was pitched low, so low he could barely hear it over the sound of his own breathing, trying to pick out what she was trying to do. She tapped the rhythm with her fingertips against the thin cot or the top of his blanket, so near to touching him that he held his breath while he tried to follow the count, while he hummed the root of the chord underneath her to try to build it out.

He watched her build songs piece by piece in front of him, sketching it out without writing a single thing down, losing herself to the magic of making music.

And in the morning, they’d come back to a different world, sharper and brighter, colder, and try to figure out where they’d gone the night before. She never quite remembered it the same way in the morning, everything changed just a little bit. A half-tone up, a beat faster, a different kind of run.

He never changed it back.

He liked the work she did while she was sleeping.

  
They stop at a rest stop for a break to stretch their legs and fill up on gas, and he swings into the McDonalds for a bunch of breakfast sandwiches for the rest of the bus. It isn't good for him, but he still loves the stale dollar coffee, the way the grease from their hash browns soaks through the paper. 

It’s cold out, their breath fogging in the air, but it’s quiet and beautiful, a kind of morning to stake hopes on. They all sit in a line on the curb and chew on the edges of their hash browns, breathing out clouds of steam. The potatoes are fresh, a little too hot to eat, stinging lightly in his mouth.

If she were here, she’d be too sleepy to talk, hiding in one of his hoodies with the hood pulled far over her head. If it were years ago, she’d pull his arms around her to keep her warm while they waited for the tank to refill. She wouldn’t want a breakfast of her own, but she’d steal enough bites of his that he’d have to get two anyway.

He smiles around the next bite of his sandwich.

The song comes to him in shards after that. Breathy and clean like winter morning, a bright melody running through, a guitar riff buzzing quietly underneath a percussive piano.

He borrows a pen, and jots lines through the grease on the McDonalds bag.

  
He’s on the second day of a three-night stand in Houston by the time her bus makes it there, where she’s sold out the stadium for three nights. Some part of her has always liked camping out on the bus but the stadium shows mean the bus is mostly for equipment and for a few of the roadies while the rest of them—the band, the dancers, the managers and staff—get rooms in the hotel.

It’s probably more how she remembers it than how it used to be, but she misses sleeping on the bus sometimes, that claustrophobic feeling of summer camp on the highway. But maybe that was older Julie, the Julie who was just part of the band, instead of the one headlining stadiums, the boss that everybody relies on for their next paycheck. It’s dangerous to pretend that she’s just like her dancers, no matter how much they all tell her they love her and she’s a friend more than she is a boss. She knows—it’s both, and there’s no taking that away.

It’s been years since she’s seen him really play—years since she’s listened to anything he’s written for himself—and part of her is curious about how it lands now that the sting is gone. Now that they’ve opened everything back up and pretended that it’s all back to some kind of normal. But they’ve both got shows and little time for anything other than work, so it’ll have to wait. If she had to guess, she’d bet that he still likes to set up the stage with everything perched nearly out towards the end of the stage. He’s too old to crowdsurf and he’s never been the kind to talk, so maybe he stakes out a stool on the end of the stage and plays his guitar for them, the lights turned up just enough so that he could watch the looks on their faces when he plays.

He sends through a brief rundown of the details—theater, time, when he’s going on stage.

 _break a leg_ , she texts him. _i’m sure you’re going to do fine._

 _first tour in a couple years_ , he replies. _maybe they’ll hate it._

 _then fuck em_ , she replies.

 _harsh_ , he says. _you’re going to kill it._

  
She relishes her time in the green room after a show. They wrap up usually at about eleven, and she comes off-stage dripping with sweat and glowing, ready to celebrate and rally everyone ahead of the show for the following night. But the time after that belongs to herself entirely. Inside her dressing room, she takes time to strip off her show make-up and change out of her outfit, to clean off every lingering vibe of the day’s performance. No two shows are alike, she learned that a long time ago, and she likes to think that she brings something new each time, that people never walk away disappointed.

But there’s a ritual to taking off Julie Molina and going back to just Julie again, and it starts in the green room and in the time she takes to reflect on how she thinks she did, on whether it was everything that she wanted it to be. Luke always said that she was her own harshest critic when it came to shows—and he should know given how he is about his own performances, she thinks—but when you’re in it as long as she’s been, as long as they both have been, the only thing to focus on is whether or not she thinks she did what she set out to do, whether she was delivering what they expected .

Tonight was good, she thinks, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have gone better. She clipped a run a little too short in _Plasticine_ , lagged in the costume change ahead of the second act of the show, and slipped on her fingering on _Daisy Chains_ , but she can chalk those up to not sleeping enough. Still, there’s been something that’s been missing from her recent shows that she hasn’t quite figured out yet—an energy that hasn’t been sparking.

Carefully, she daubs make-up remover on and strips it all off. All of the varnish and polish until she unearths herself. There’s always a moment when she catches her own reflection in the mirror and pauses—she always looks more tired than she expects, a little different than how she looks on billboards, on TV, in the movies. Sometimes it’s hard for her to see the girl underneath all of the glitz and glam, the one who stumbled into a studio and found a band strumming through band practice, the one who understood her life as a distillation of a single desire, who just wanted to sing and make people happy. She still wants to sing, to make music, to make people happy, but, if she’s being honest, she hasn’t honestly considered whether that’s still what she’s doing.

She hasn’t seen that excitement in her eyes in a long time.

Her phone buzzes on the vanity. _you still hungry after the show?_

  
She knows he laughs when she suggests Gus’s, but it’s late and they’re in Texas and what she wants is salt and grease. He’s all jittery energy when they meet in the parking lot, his hair slicked back with water, dressed down in dark jeans and a t-shirt. She grins when she sees him, but she finds the patience to walk up to him before she throws her arms around him in a hug.

His hands settle warm against the middle of her back, and she feels a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

“Hey,” he says, “Good show?”

“I’m starving, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She gets all dark meat with a side of coleslaw as he decides to get a plate. It’s Friday night and the place is packed, but it’s dark and she’s got a cap pulled down low over her forehead. He slides an arm around the small of her back, casual as they ever used to be, as they go to collect their food and head back towards the rear of the parking lot. They walk right through and head down the quiet residential street to sit on the curb and watch the cars pass by.

“I wish I could have seen you,” she says.

“Why?” he laughs. “So you can tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

She lifts a drumstick up to her mouth and takes a large bite. It crunches hot and salty against her mouth, and she makes a tiny little noise of happiness. There’s no beating something deep-fried and unhealthy after a show. 

He picks at his baked beans with a plastic fork, but his eyes never leave her face.

She wipes her mouth on a napkin. “I haven’t seen you play in a while,” she says. “I was just thinking about it today…”

“We played together at the Hall of Fame thing.”

“Well,” she says, “That was the Phantoms. But just you?”

“You didn’t really have much reason to,” he says.

She takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “Yeah, but, it’s something we do for each other, right?” she says. “Support each other’s music, and whatever?”

A car turns down the street, and the headlights brighten the street briefly like the light-up from a bomb.

“Come to any show you want,” he says. “I’ll comp you.”

“Oh, big shot,” she laughs.

“But don’t feel like you have to,” he says. 

“I don’t.”

“Okay,” he says. “Good.”

“Okay.”

The styrofoam plate in his hand makes a creaking noise every time he moves it, and she watches him try to navigate eating and talking at the same time, his fingers fluttering underneath the plate every time he would usually be waving his hands to make some kind of a point. “How’s the road been for you?” 

She shrugs. “It’s the road.”

“You look good,” he says.

She tilts the brim of her cap up slightly, and smiles. “I haven’t showered yet,” she says, “But thanks.”

“I’m glad we’re talking,” he says.

She finishes off one drumstick, and starts on another. “Me too,” she says. “I didn’t realize how much I missed…having someone to talk to.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So how long did it take you to fix your set list?”

“Asshole,” she says. “Stop asking about me. How was your show?”

He shrugs with a small smirk. “Thirty-six people, half of ‘em drunk,” he says. “Same old.”

“Shut up,” she says. “A room full of screaming girls, probably. You think I don’t remember how my mentions used to be?”

He raises his eyebrows. “How did they used to be?”

“Full of shit,” she says, laughing.

He knocks his shoulder against hers. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow?”

He nods. “After the show. Then one night in Austin, and then headed to St. Louis.”

“Nice.”

“What about you?”

“I’m in Texas for about a week,” she says. “And then Mexico.”

“Latin America?”

She nods. “Mexico, South America, Australia, then I have a couple days off and we do Colorado.”

“Sounds relaxing.”

She chews the rest of her bite. “You really don’t miss it, huh?”

“The traveling?” he says. “I like being on the road okay. I don’t love the whole…stress of it. And you’re packed. Back to back to back, and then back in the studio.”

She shrugs. “That’s how we did it.”

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t say anything more, but she can tell that he wants to. They’re still in the shadow of Jamaica, she thinks, for all the distance that they’ve made. He’s afraid to push the issue, and she’s too tired to talk about it, but she’s made her peace with it—he’s never wanted the life that she built for herself, and that’s okay. They’re different people, and that’s okay too.

“I get it, you know,” she says, wiping her fingertips on a napkin and crumpling it onto her plate.

“You don’t have anything left to prove,” he says. “To me, to anybody.”

“I know,” she says.

He levels a look at her.

“What?”

“It just feels like…” he says, with a deep breath, “You keep trying because you feel like you should keep trying.”

She turns back to her plate.

“All I’m saying is you should make music because you want to,” he says. “Not because somebody says you have to deliver.”

“I know.” She sucks the grease off of her thumb and sets her plate aside. “I like writing. I like performing.”

“You’re good at it,” he says.

“Thank you. I’m not ready to retire.”

“Nobody’s asking you to retire,” he says. “I just think…a break’s not a bad idea. Once a year.”

She smiles. “Noted. So how are you spending your last night in Houston?”

He shrugs. “It’s Texas,” he says. “What do you want to do?”

She exhales and nods at his plate. “You done?”

He nods.

Stacking her plate on top of his, she walks towards the dumpster to chuck their food in among the garbage. “Let’s go somewhere.”

He grins, wide and excitable. “You sure about this?” he says. “You’ve got another show tomorrow night.”

She checks her phone. “So do you.”

“I'm not international superstar Julie Molina. Nobody makes me dance.”

She laughs and shoves him in answer. “It’s not that late, grandpa,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  
They wind up at a dive bar that he knows about on the opposite side of town. It’s not her scene, but there’s an outdoor garden and she takes a seat and waits for him. He knows the owner or something, he tells her, and she doesn’t know enough about how dive bars work to know whether or not that’s a good thing or a bad thing. When he comes back, he’s got tall plastic cups in hand and slides her one across the table.

There are groups of people hanging around and smoking, the noise of chatter loud in the neighborhood, but he grins at her and drinks half of his drink.

It’s a vodka ginger ale or something close to it, but it tastes more like vodka and she winces through the first sip.

“Please,” he says. “I know how you used to drink.”

“How do you even know this place?”

He takes a thoughtful sip of his drink and takes a seat beside her. It reminds her of the places they played when they first started, when the sound guys didn’t know how their equipment worked and everything sounded like it was two seconds away from shorting out or exploding. His arm brushes against her back as he leans against her, making space for a couple passing behind them towards the single gate.

“After Tokyo,” he says. “I wasn’t in a great place, and Dan, the guy who runs this, he helped me out a lot.”

She nods and takes another sip of her drink, the alcohol warming its way down. A flush of heat rises up into her cheeks. “Did you talk about it a lot?” she says.

He blinks up at her, tilting his head as he studies her.

She glances down at the table. “Your—Tokyo, whatever,” she says. “With people. Did you—it can be good to talk about it.”

“It took me a while,” he says. “But yeah. I drank less, started talking to a professional, the whole thing.”

She nods.

“I don’t think I knew it was going to be that hard,” he says. “Walking away from everything after all that time.”

“It was like a family,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says, with a soft smile. “Our little family.”

She drains her drink. 

“I don’t—I just mean that Dan’s been there for me,” he says. “But what happened—it had to happen that way, I guess.”

“Do you think so?”

He nods. “I mean, we were figuring it out as we went, and we were bound to make mistakes,” he says. “We just ended up making big ones. And now, you know—look at us. We’re here, we’re talking, we’re figuring it out. Starting over.”

She shakes the plastic cup and listens to the ice rattle. “Yeah,” she says.

He taps her wrist. “Want another?”

“Okay.”

  
After that, they don’t talk about anything serious. They talk about the tours, about what she likes and hates about performing internationally, about what their plans are for when they get back. They’re both big on recovering from tour by never leaving home, and she sketches out a plan for him about staying in her house for a month and only seeing people that she’s agreed to let inside.

She gets through another two drinks, and so does he, and then they’re just sitting at the table in the beer garden, watching each other under the tacky dim outdoor lighting. It’s getting late, later than she should be out, but she’s missed this—private time with him, having the chance to catch up, to feel like she can see friends. She’s forgotten how much he can make her laugh when he’s trying, and he’s trying—not enough to make it seem like he’s trying, but enough for her to notice.

She doesn’t know what they’re doing, but she’s too tired to think about whether she should care. It’s too nice just to sit here with him like nothing has happened, nothing has changed, and know that they’re the same people they ever were. The alcohol makes her skin warm, and she leans into him a little too much as she talks, her fingers grazing against his arm as she tries to make her point.

“Be honest,” he says, leaning in and nearly brushing his mouth against her ear, “How long did it take you to build your set?”

She snorts. “Why do you care?”

“I’m curious,” he says. “Call me a curious mind.”

“Fuck you,” she laughs. “I care about how it builds. I don’t like to change things up on the fly.”

“You just like to call all the shots.”

She grins. “That’s right,” she says. “I’m the boss.”

“That reminds me,” he says. “I have something for you.”

She raises her eyebrows.

He reaches a hand into his inner jacket pocket and takes out a folded sheet of notebook paper. She can recognize the wide, sloppy handwriting a mile away.

“Don’t tell me you’re writing my set lists now too?”

He makes a face at her and holds it out for her to take. “Very funny.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a song,” he says.

She unfolds it with a grin, her eyes flicking down the page quickly. “You keep trying to put words in my mouth.”

He smirks, his eyes darting down towards her lips. “Maybe.”

“Why’d you write this for me?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning back, “Who says I wrote it for you?”

She arches a brow. “Well, all right,” she says. “Why are you giving it to me then?”

“Because I think you’d sing the hell out of it,” he says.

“And because you wrote it for me.”

“I did not—” he says with a mild laugh. “You believe what you want to believe.”

She inches closer until she can feel the heat of his body against her side. His arm slides around her waist, bracing her up as she leans back to look at him.

“Be careful,” he says, voice sliding low and soft. “It’s a bench, not a barstool.”

She blinks up at him from beneath her lashes with a soft hum. The world slants to one side.

His hand tracks up to the middle of her back, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She hums as she turns to study him, propping her head against her hand. “So thoughtful,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes.

“I should just let you fall on your ass, you’re saying?”

“You’re so annoying,” she says.

He laughs, one of those big Luke laughs she remembers, the bridge of his nose scrunching up with the motion. “Maybe we should get you back then,” he says. “Before Julie turns back into a pumpkin.”

She groans. “You’re probably right,” she says. “I can call my guys. We can drop you too.”

“Big shot,” he replies.

“This was good,” she says. “Nice, I mean. To see you.”

He grins. “Yeah,” he says. “Nice to see you too.”

“I’m glad we’re talking.”

“You getting soft on me?”

She elbows him in the side. “Shut up.”

“No,” he says, with a smile. “You’re right. It’s been…really good.” He looks at her a beat too long, and she feels her cheeks flush with warmth. 

“Now who’s getting soft?”

Rising to her feet carefully, she stands and he moves with her, his hand dropping to steady at her arm. Stepping over the bench, they make their way towards the gate.

For all that she’s been around town on tour, she doesn’t really walk anymore. It’s nice to hear the street settle into its natural noise, to feel her steps slowing to match his, to see the way they weave crooked lines and come back together, their hands brushing every so often. It feels so easy to take his hand in hers, so natural, but she keeps to her lane, her eyes level with the road ahead.

They come up to an intersection, but there are no cars, and they keep walking.

“Do you have any idea where the fuck you’re going?” he says.

She laughs. “No.”

“Okay,” he says. “Just checking.”

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” she says.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “As soon as we're done, I think. Why?”

She bites her lip and shrugs. “It was nice to see you,” she says. “In person like this.”

“You know how it is on the road,” he says.

She snorts. “That sounds like a line you give to someone on the bus when you’re kicking them out,” she says. Affecting a deeper voice, she repeats, “'You know how it is on the road, Ashley. Time to go.'”

"Ashley?" He hoots a laugh, swiping his hand through his hair. “That’s what you think of me, huh?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what it’s like for you these days.”

He reaches for the edge of her shirt and pulls at it lightly. “Stop,” he says. “You want the car to find us, don’t you?”

She turns to face him, a rush of heat rising into her cheeks as she stops right in front of him. “Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”

His hand brushes against her bare arm. “Nothing to apologize for,” he says, quietly. And then he doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes darting over her face, studying her. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“When am I going to run into you again?” he says.

She laughs. “Is that what this is?” she says. “A run-in?”

He shrugs. “Kinda,” he says. “Don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” he repeats.

“You texted,” she says. “That can’t count.”

“What happened to ‘it’s the thought that counts’?”

She grins. “Fine. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Thank you.”

“This was really nice,” she says, again, because she can’t think of anything else to say that doesn’t feel like stepping into a trap. But she’s smiling at him, her cheeks almost pinching with how wide it is, and she thinks it doesn’t really matter anyway.

“You going to be hungover tomorrow?”

She scoffs. “You know me,” she says. “I’m a trouper.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Why?” she says. “You going to take care of me? Give me the Luke Patterson special?”

“Please,” he says. “You know you miss it.”

“What, you taking care of me?” she says, blinking up at him. “Maybe.”

He takes in a slow breath, half-laughing and shaking his head as she suddenly barrels hard into him, her arms circling his neck as they stumble backward towards the curb. “You’re going to get hit by a car,” he laughs.

She draws herself up onto her toes and leans her weight against him. “And then you’ll knock me out of the way. Make all the papers.”

“What are you, my publicist?”

She leans back and narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t have a publicist anymore,” she says. “Do you?”

“I have Mikey,” he says. “Publicist, agent, manager, everything.”

She laughs. “There you go.”

“Is this your way of saying good night?”

She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” she whispers. “Good night.”

He takes an unsteady breath, quick and frantic, and she turns to the other side of his mouth and does the same thing.

“Aren’t you going to say anything back?” she whispers.

He swallows hard, his hands landing on her hips to steady her. He always looks like she’s catching him off-guard, like there’s something he wasn’t expecting. 

“Say good night,” she says, leaning in to kiss him.

He mumbles something inaudible and her mouth grazes his, a soft, quick touch. 

“Good night,” she repeats, kissing him again. This time, his mouth opens under hers, bitter and sour with alcohol as she licks into his mouth.

When she pulls away, he exhales, and she grins, giddy with his speechlessness, with the tingle of sensation in her fingertips.

“You can’t keep saying good night,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

He coughs. “It’s not allowed.”

She shrugs with affected nonchalance. “You don’t want to kiss me?” she pouts.

He shoots her an exasperated look before his hand slides around her neck and pulls her into him. “Smartass,” he mumbles.

His mouth is hot when it meets hers, lips bruising against hers as he deepens the kiss, as she whimpers quietly into his mouth. She forgets how good he is at this—at kissing, at giving her exactly what she needs. His fingers are cool against the skin of her neck and she shivers into his touch.

And then the car arrives, a tall, black SUV that flashes its lights once. Her phone rings in the palm of her hand.

“This you?” he says, roughly, pulling away.

She nods mutely.

He glances at the door and then moves to open it for her. 

She shoots him a disbelieving look as she moves towards the car.

“What are you waiting for?” he says. “An invitation?”

“What are you doing?”

He shrugs and glances down the street. “Maybe take a walk.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, marching up to him. Reaching for his face, she pulls him in for another kiss, long and searching.

When he pulls away, he looks at her with faint confusion.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, coughing a laugh. “Get in the fucking car.”

“Julie.”

She licks her lips and glances up at him. His eyes are dark, darting between looking at her and falling to her mouth. “Get in the car,” she repeats. “We’ll drop you. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

His eyes never leave hers, but he nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

  
She climbs into his lap once they’re inside, her legs folded on the seat on either side of him, her hair a mess and pressing into his face. She laughs, a little breathless with the motion, and his hands settle on her back and hold her in place as the driver starts his way down the street. He’s smart enough to know how lucky he is, to let her lead, but his heart hammers hard in his chest and all he can taste is the faint fruity note of her lip balm.

She grins at him, running a hand through her hair, thick with tangles and messy around them.

It’s been years and he thinks he’ll never understand her, never know the depths of how much he wants her, how much he feels for her. She’s all puffed up with quiet glee, fighting back a smirk, her eyes narrowed with humor. Her lashes are long in the dim light, and he darts a glance towards the rearview mirror to see if the driver’s minding his own business.

Her forehead moves to rest against his, her mouth grazing his lips gently, but she doesn’t move.

“I thought you wanted to take it a day at a time,” he says.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s how we’re taking it.”

She’s a solid weight in his lap, and his fingers trace the edge of the waistband of her jeans, skating over her bare skin. She sucks in a quiet breath and rocks lightly in his lap, and he exhales loudly, jaw tightening.

“Do you want to go?” she whispers. Her voice is thin, fragile for this time of night, and he wonders how it is they find themselves in these situations when the only thing they can focus on is the one thing they can’t ever seem to talk about. Maybe it all means too much, he thinks, too heavy for any single sentence, any single person, to carry. “I meant what I said. We can drop you back at your hotel, too. This isn’t…I don’t expect anything.”

He chuckles, softly bitter. “Julie,” he says, “I told you I loved you.”

She nods.

“Trust me, it’s not that I—that you’re expecting something that isn’t there. You were the one who wanted…”

She nods. “I remember.”

He leans back in his seat, tilting his head up to study her. The fall of her hair around her shoulders, the glow of her skin in the low light, the warmth of her eyes framed by her long, dark lashes. Beautiful, he thinks, more beautiful than anyone should have a right to be.

“Luke?”

“Come here,” he says, pulling her down into the seat beside him. Her head falls to settle against his chest, her arms encircling his waist, and he wraps his arms around her. She’s soft and warm in his arms, quiet even if he can still feel how restless she is, but he holds her against him and watches the world flick by through the tinted windows of the car.

She exhales a shaky breath against his chest. “Where do you want to go?”

“Where do you want to take me?”

He doesn’t know what kind of answer he expects. Something straightforward maybe, or a joke, but she just looks at him, her lips parted, her eyes serious as she studies him. 

“Baby steps, right?” he says, kissing the crown of her head.

She nuzzles against him and closes her eyes. He can feel her breathing turn steady and even, and they don’t talk after that.

  
He wants to take his time this time.

Last time, it had also been her hotel room, also late at night, also too close to the things they weren’t ready to discuss. Last time, he had been exploding with anxiety, hovering on the edge of confessing that he loved her, still loved her, distracted and overwhelmed and frantic all at once. Last time, it felt like the last time, the last chance, the last word. 

Once they’re in her room, she tosses her purse on the floor, and they start stripping off their coats and shoes. The lights in her room glow soft, and she keeps them low as she shakes out her hair and moves towards the bed. She takes a seat on the edge, shifting back onto it to leave him space. The last few weeks have all felt like some weird dream and he can’t help but feel the same as he approaches the bed and takes the sight of her in—leaning back on her elbows, back arched, lips full and parted, looking at him with open want.

He takes in a sharp breath and climbs onto the bed, bracing himself up onto his arms. 

She blinks up at him, smiling, inviting him to kiss her. 

He brushes a thick curl away from her face with his fingers. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

She grins, rolling her eyes. “Shut up.”

“The best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, sliding a hand into her hair and angling her head up. He leans down, his lips hovering inches from hers, bumping his nose against hers.

“Luke,” she whines.

“What?”

“Move, I swear to god,” she says.

“So bossy,” he says, but he closes the distance between them and kisses her. It’s a chaste kiss, sweet and soft, but her lips pull at his, trying to get closer, to deepen the kiss. He chuckles against her mouth as he drops down to his elbows and slants his mouth over hers. He’s never tired of kissing her, not when she fists his t-shirt in her hand with a possessive growl, not when she groans softly into his mouth to urge him closer.

Julie’s never been quiet about what she wants anywhere, but there's something stunning about how she draws her lines here. About how sure she is at knowing exactly what she wants and how to say it, at how firm she is even when she’s blushing and a little shy.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, sucking a kiss against her neck. But he’s never been like her. He’s never had her courage, her fearlessness to dive in and make the first move and trust that it’s the right thing to do.

Her hands slide up underneath his t-shirt, hot and smooth against the plane of his back, nails scratching lightly against his spine.

He kisses her again, soft and slow enough to tease, tasting her as long as he can.

She’s impatient already, tugging at the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head, but he fights her hands off. He’s determined to pay more attention this time, to study every freckle over her collarbone, every noise she makes whenever he touches her bare skin. 

“What are you doing?” she breathes.

“Patience,” he says.

But that's not a word that she likes or understands, and she tilts her head back to study him with a grunt, annoyed.

With a grin, she undoes the button on her jeans, pushing them down far enough to snake a hand between them. He loses himself in the sight for a moment: her defiant stare, the quick circling motion of her hand against her slick, the clumsy rock of her hips against the bed.

"What are you doing?" he echoes.

"Figure it out."

He snags her wrist and draws her hand up between them, taking each of her fingers in turn into his mouth and licking them clean.

She breathes hard, moaning quietly as he drags his teeth against her skin. "Fuck."

He grins. "We'll get there."

She strips her t-shirt off and tosses it somewhere on the floor beside them with a shiver. It's a sight he doesn't think he'll ever get used to--her warm brown skin, the dusky points of her breasts pebbling in the air, the way she fills the palms of his hands. Maybe one day he won't want to take his time, won't want to memorize every individual freckle or scar that dots her skin or forget himself in how beautiful she looks, but that isn't tonight. That isn't now.

Now, he reaches for her face and kisses her deeply, his hands skimming up her belly to curl around the sides of her ribcage.

"Touch me," she whispers, her hand scratching through his hair. "Don't stop."

He doesn't plan to. He sinks his hips against hers, rocking his hardness against her as she grinds down against him. "Feel good?" he murmurs.

She hums softly, linking her hands behind his neck as she grinds against him. Her skin glows in the light, goosebumps prickling along her arms, and he slides his mouth down the column of her neck towards her collarbone.

He crawls down the length of her body, palms sliding hard against her breasts as he kisses her shoulder and moves lower. It's embarrassing how much he loves this part of her, how full she feels against his hands, how sensitive she is when he works her with his mouth.

The bud of her breast hardens beneath his tongue, and she squirms beneath him with a gasp, searching for relief.

He moves to the other breast, his hand trailing down her belly to slip between her legs. She's already all over his fingers, sensitive and slick, and he shifts against his jeans, aching at the thought of being inside her.

When he sinks his fingers inside of her, she hisses. "Oh, fuck," she groans, and he hums in agreement as he slides his mouth over the swell of her breast.

Her muscles squeeze tight around his fingers as he drives them up to the knuckle, pumping them inside of her. It's a hard angle with her jeans down by her thighs and her underwear in the way, but he angles his hand and buries them as deep as he can.

"Luke," she whines, " _Yes_..."

People are always talking about temptations on the road, the pretty girls that stand in line and wait for a chance to see them at every stop. The adoration, the excitement, how ready they are to accept one night with their favorite star. But he wouldn’t trade any of it for this—Julie Molina in his bed, between his legs, glowing with want and desperate to touch him.

He works his fingers inside of her in an awkward rhythm, his tongue keeping time in hard flicks against her breast, as she grinds herself against him, taking him deeper. "Fuck, Jules," he growls, biting her shoulder. "You miss me this much?"

He thumbs a hard circle against her sensitive flesh, and she gasps.

"You miss me enough to ride my hand like this?"

Her breath hitches in her throat. "Luke..."

"Because I missed seeing you like this," he says, hooking his fingers inside of her. His thumb bruises against her, hard and fast, and she gasps a whine, hips circling against his touch as she gets close. "So ready for me, sweetheart, and just dripping on my fingers..."

She arches back against the bed with a soft cry, her muscles clenching around him. "Fuck."

He laughs and kisses her. “You okay?”

She grunts, peeling her jeans the rest of the way off and kicking them aside. "You talk too much," she says, and drags off her panties to add to the pile. Shifting up onto her knees, she yanks his t-shirt over his head and joins it to the pile before pecking a kiss against his mouth. "You're monologuing."

Her hands are cold as they slip around his naked back, anchoring him against her. He licks against her mouth. "I think you like it," he says. "Methinks the lady..."

"Shut the fuck up," she laughs, pulling him in towards her.

They stay like that for a minute, making out like teenagers, her mouth soft and swollen underneath his until she pulls away and collapses back against the bed with a quiet laugh.

"Graceful," he says.

"Me?" she replies, batting her eyes at him. "Always."

He drops soft kisses against the lids of her eyes, the valley of her collarbone.

"Come here," she murmurs, shifting her legs to make space for him.

He circles his thumb over her core and she sighs, her hips canting down against the mattress. “Okay?” he says.

“Yeah,” she murmurs.

He does it again, listening to the slight uptick in her breath as he increases his pressure. Her muscles cling to his fingers so tightly, and he sinks his teeth into her neck, so hard he can barely focus on what he's doing, and she moans.

“Fuck, Jules,” he murmurs. "You know what you do to me?"

She hasn't even touched him tonight, and he's aching, straining hard against the fabric of his jeans.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, after a moment.

“There’s never been anyone like you,” he says, kissing her again.

“Don’t get soft on me,” she whispers.

But it’s true—it’s never felt the same with any woman he’s been with since her, after her. There’s something about how open she is, how impossible it is for her to hide anything that she’s thinking, to hold herself back, whenever they’re together. It’s something like honesty, though it isn’t the right word for it. It makes him want to look after her, makes him want to split himself open and share all of his pain with her too.

That’s getting soft.

He goes to fish a condom out of his wallet, and strips off his pants and boxers as he climbs onto the bed. Tearing it open, he rolls it on quickly before he crawls up to join her. 

She kisses him softly on the lips. “Hey,” she says. 

He kisses her back. “Hi.”

“I missed you,” she whispers.

“I missed you too.” He kisses her again, soft and searching.

She grins, licking her lips. “Show me how much.”

He reaches down to guide himself inside of her, sinking in deep and slow, inch by inch. He'll be damned if he's going to rush it this time, and he groans into her neck as he pushes deep inside her.

She's already impatient if her hard breathing is any indication, her heel digging into his thigh as she tries to get him to move. It shouldn't be possible for her to feel this good around him, he thinks, hot and tight and pulsing. He doesn't know how he could have ever walked away from this, from her. He doesn't know how he could ever be so stupid.

He kisses her as he settles, rocking himself in a little deeper.

“ _Fuck_ , Luke,” she moans.

“Jesus, you feel so good.”

He digs his fingertips into the flesh of her thighs and sets a slow rhythm, pulling nearly all the way out before sinking back in. She hitches a leg high around his waist, but he's careful to keep his pace, going slow enough to feel everything. The bed creaks softly as he picks up the pace, and she stutters a sigh, her hips tilting up to meet him.

He braces his weight up on his hands, and sucks a bruise against the top of her breast.

She digs her nails into his shoulder and arches her back, urging him deeper. “Fuck, Luke. Harder,” she moans. 

He kisses her, wet and sloppy, his forehead touching against hers. “Tell me what you want,” he says. He ratchets up the pace, his eyes sliding shut as he thrusts quick and hard against her.

“Luke,” she whines. “Harder, please, please…”

"I missed you so much," he whispers, licking at her ear.

He bites at her neck, tucking his head against her collarbone as he drives into her hard. She sucks in a sharp breath, spine melting into the bed, murmuring his name. When he hits the right angle, she gasps and hisses his name.

Her nails scratch hard along his back as he fucks her into the bed.

He doesn’t have any words left. All he knows is he wants to stay buried inside of her, to hear her make those noises against his ear for the rest of his life. To give her anything she wants, the rest of his music, the rest of his life, if he can keep this, keep her.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathes, “Please, please, please…”

He squeezes her hand and kisses her hard, his hips driving rough against hers as she comes with a sharp gasp.

Her tongue slides hot against his mouth.

It would be so easy to love her for the rest of his life, he thinks.

If she’d let him.

He could make an entire life out of it.

He knows what comes after this: the two of them hedging what they don’t want to talk about, him holding her in his arms as long as he can until she falls asleep. This time, she nests against his chest, her leg thrown over his, her head tucked just underneath his chin. But for now, it’s peaceful, the two of them basking in the glow of what just happened, careful not to break the comfortable silence they’ve built up around them.

“When do you have to go?” she says.

“I have time,” he says, checking the screen of his phone. “Jimbo’s not going to call a check until at least seven.”

She kisses him softly. “I’m not going to complain about the time with you,” she says. “No matter what time it is.”

“You should sleep, though,” he says. “You have a show tomorrow.”

“So do you,” she says.

He shrugs. “Everybody expects me to be a hot mess,” he says. 

She rolls her eyes, punching her hand against his arm. “You’re such a liar.”

He snickers. “I’m just trying to look out for you,” he says. “Don’t want those bad reviews.”

She fights a yawn, blinking up at him. “I don’t want to,” she says, petulantly.

He traces a line down the length of her bare back as she hums with pleasure. “Why, because we’re having such an interesting conversation?”

For all that they try to keep their worlds separate, they always default back to this point—leaning on the edge of talking about something serious without being willing to talk about it. He never wants to push the issue—he’s the one who has feelings, not her; he’s the one who left, not her—but he doesn’t know how long he can go on pretending that none of this matters. The late-night conversations, the kisses, the quiet moments of afterglow when neither of them know what to say or do.

“I can tell you’re overthinking something,” she says, running her fingers along the edge of his hairline.

He shakes his head. “Just thinking about…nothing.” 

She tilts her head. “You’re thinking about nothing?”

He laughs. “Being here, then, I guess,” he says. “Tonight.”

“What about tonight?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t…think it’s the right time for us to have this conversation,” he says. “We’re on the road, and I can’t stay, and…”

She takes a sharp breath. “You can’t push me,” she says.

“I know,” he says. “I know. I’m not.” At her look, he adds, “I’m not. I know exactly—you were very clear.”

“It’s just going to take me some time,” she says. “It’s not overnight.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” she says.

He kisses her. “That doesn’t change the fact that I love you,” he says.

She exhales through her mouth and settles her head on his chest. “I know,” she whispers. He strokes her hair gently back against the pillow. “Are you upset that I can’t—that I’m not ready to say it back?”

“No,” he says. “Of course not. This isn’t exactly what we planned, what you expected. We’re figuring it out.”

She kisses him, and raises herself up on her arms to look at him. “Hey,” she says. She’s looking at him with serious eyes, her lips pressed into a kind of pout. “It doesn’t mean I’m not happy you’re here.”

“You’re happy I’m here?” he says, with a soft laugh.

She punches him in the arm. “Shut up,” she says. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how to talk about this with anyone, but with you?” she says. “You’ve known me since—since I was in high school. You were everything to me, and then you were—”

“Yeah,” he says.

“It’s not like a normal…thing,” she says.

“But you’re happy to see me,” he says, with a smirk.

“Oh, shut up,” she says.

“It’s not easy for me either,” he says. “It’s never been like it was with you with anyone else. Not writing, not…”

“Not writing?” she repeats. “We’re naked in my hotel room, talking about—talking about things, and you’re telling me about other people you wrote with?”

“Not anything else either,” he says, kissing her. “But it’s nice that you’re jealous.”

“I am _not_ ,” she says.

“It’s never been like it was with you,” he says. “You see right through me. You know exactly who I am. Fuck, you know exactly who you are, and you don’t take any shit. Not from me, not from anybody.”

“That’s right,” she says, with a small smile.

“There’s no one else for me,” he says. “Not now, not ever. And I know that you’re figuring it out, and I don’t expect anything. I just…wanted to let you know.”

She tilts her head down. “We said we weren’t going to make any promises.”

“I know,” he says. “But I made that one anyway.”

She kisses him. “Okay.”

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in close. “You should sleep,” he says.

She twists in his grasp, rolling onto her other side and tapping her fingers against the knuckles of his hand. “If you need to leave and I’m asleep,” she says, “Wake me first.”

  
She’s sleeping when he crawls out of bed and gets dressed. It’s dawn, and he has a dozen text messages on his phone from the crew. He checks in with them, letting them know he’s going to meet them, and then he goes to shake her awake.

She’s never happiest when it’s early, but she cracks open her eyes and glares at him. “What is it?” she murmurs, voice heavy with sleep.

He kisses her forehead. “You asked me to,” he says. “I’ve got to go and meet the bus.”

She reaches for his hand and pulls him in for a chaste kiss. He cups her face with his hand, brushing his thumb along her jawline.

“Good show,” she mumbles, sinking back into the pillows. “Text me.”

“Love you,” he whispers. 

But she’s already halfway asleep.

  
Nine weeks on the road, and he comes back to his dogs, screaming for joy to see him, and a house that smells faintly of dust, a little too quiet and a little too empty. Coming back from the road always leaves him with a bit of a hangover—too much greasy food, the stress of performing, keeping late hours—and his body always responds by sending him into an immediate state of being sick.

But there’s no taking away the first joys of coming back either—playing with his dogs, catching up with Alex and Reggie when he can, getting back into the studio. But this time, it’s impossible not to just think about the last time he saw her—the memory of her body warm in the bed beside him, the smell of her in the bedsheets, the conversations they had.

There’s a stack of packages waiting for him in the foyer, neatly gathered by his cleaning lady and all of them stamped with Julie’s handwriting. There are gifts from nearly every tour stop—little trinkets, refrigerator magnets, novelty shot glasses or t-shirts that he’ll never have any reason to use. He thinks about the boxes gathering dust in his own attic, the ones full of old memories, the old doodles and notes. He wonders if it’s worth it to unpack those again, or if it’d be something closer to tempting fate.

They aren’t anything yet. They’re friends, maybe, who have started talking again, with benefits, they’re trying to sort through the mess from their first go-around and ignoring everything she isn’t ready to talk about. And it’s not like he’s one of those people who insists on having a label because he needs to know or to announce, but he promised he’d let her take the reins and call all the shots, and he isn’t going to go back on it. Even if she hasn’t called anything yet. Even if she seems afraid to call anything.

And he gets it.

But he’s never been comfortable being in a position where he can’t do anything but think about all of the things that aren’t up to him, even if it is what he already agreed to. So he picks up the threads of his old life and tries to catch himself up: he checks his messages, he calls his manager back, he sets up the meetings he’s been avoiding for weeks. He takes out the trash. He replies to emails. He texts back.

There are a handful of demo tapes from producers he’s worked with, a rough cut of some new Sunset Curve tracks where they won’t take any of his advice, and a handwritten note from Alex. _want to come out to cali when you get back? run from your problems and help us with ours._

He coughs a laugh and texts back immediately. 

  
She’s counting down the days until she can go home again.

Halfway through the tour is her limit every time—her limit for how much take-out she can eat, how many hotel rooms she can sleep in, how tired she gets of living out of her many beautiful suitcases. She starts to miss her house, her bed, the comfort of a weekend at home where she doesn’t have to talk to anyone she doesn’t want to. It doesn’t help that the only thing that’s on her mind is what happened in Houston, and that the last thing she remembers is the warmth of him beside her, his voice murmuring against her ear before he slipped out of her room.

Since that night, they’ve been texting back and forth, talking about the song that he wrote her, the demos that he’s sent her, what he’s doing with Alex and Reggie out in California. Alex sends her a play-by-play, full of his commentary, while Reggie sends occasional selfies and candids of the three of them goofing off at Reggie’s house in West Hollywood, riffing and rewriting old songs. Every time her phone lights up, she spends a moment scrolling through the pictures. There’s one of the three of them and their eight combined dogs jumping all over them, musical instruments and garbage scattered on the ground behind them. It’s a classic boys moment—Luke with a pick in his teeth, looking irritated, Reggie grinning behind him in an oversized pair of sunglasses, Alex twirling a drumstick in his hand.

She’s never let herself think about what she’s left behind. No matter how much she felt alone when she was recording or on stage, no matter how terrified she was about setting out on her own, she left the Phantoms in the past, and that's where they stayed. It had been such a huge part of her life, and eaten so much of her life and who she was, that she started to forget where it ended and she began. Cutting it out meant that she had to cut all of it out—the sound, the boys writing alongside her, the kinds of songs that she wanted to write for herself. She let herself be led for a year or two so that she could figure out what a new direction might even look like.

Since Houston, though, she’s found herself writing more on the road than she has in years. It flows easily, the sound of it familiar in her bones, different than the soul-infused pop she’s been singing for the last few albums. She jots lines on the backs of napkins, on hotel stationery, on spare pieces of paper lying around unclaimed. She hasn’t shared any of it yet—it’s all a little too early, she thinks, not ready to be read. But if she’s being honest, that doesn’t even matter. 

It isn’t about what she does to it.

It’s about what they can do if she gets the four of them together in a room again. It’s about how they make her laugh and what they make her think about, about what they can accomplish when they’re just sitting and riffing off each other. It’s about the joy.

  
She records a voice memo on her phone from her hotel room with her singing the individual piano parts and then the vocal part in sequence. The lyrics are incomprehensible, scribbled images and half-lines across 18 cocktail napkins, but she does her best to string them along between a series of mumbled sounds.

She laughs halfway through the take, but keeps going. She can already picture his face when he listens to it the first time, something halfway between serious and joking. But he won’t be able to resist the urge to jump in, to add in eighteen guitar parts, to tweak with the drums and the sound until it sounds like something completely different.

She sends it to all of them at once with a short note: early draft. be nice.

Alex sends her an entire line of different emoji.

Reggie sends her a thumb’s up and a bunch of hearts.

Luke sends her a devil emoji and an ok. 

(She texts him back, _i mean it, luke. early means early._

His response: _when am i not nice? i’m always nice._ )

  
She always ends her tours in California.

It’s been something of a tradition after her first solo international tour, but there’s something about the idea of a homecoming that she finds rejuvenating. To come and play a sold-out stadium in her hometown, to see Flynn and her family and her friends out in the crowd and feel the support of millions of people who are as tied to that place as she is. There’s a power to it that nothing else can touch.

This time around, by the time she’s on the bus headed back into California, all she can think about is how close she is to the end of the tour. Two nights in Los Angeles, and then she’s able to crawl off of the tour bus and head back to her own house and hide from her agent and her team and the label for five months. Well, probably less than that, but enough time for her to fuse the exhausted pieces of herself back together.

There are flowers waiting for her in the green room when they arrive—one from her family, one from Flynn, one from Jonah, one from the label, so on and so on—until she feels like she’s swimming in dahlias. Reggie sends her a spray of red dahlias with a little handwritten card— _don’t forget your lyrics! xo r_ —and then there’s a tiny bunch waiting by the mirror. It’s less an arrangement than a little bouquet of flowers. A dahlia, of course, with lavender, pink and peach peonies, lilies, and irises, bound together with a thin ribbon.

She smiles even before she sees the card attached to it. 

_don’t drop the tempo by dragging a run_

She grins. “Asshole.”

  
Nothing comes close to the energy of a finale show.

By the time she emerges backstage, all of the dancers, crew, and band busy themselves with getting into position, even as they shake and bounce, restless with energy, weeping and squealing with emotions that none of them want to talk about. For the last stops of a tour, she always makes sure to reach everyone, to share some kind words or squeeze an arm and let them know the role that they’ve played on the tour. She’s more than a headliner or a boss—she’s a leader for their little gang, and she knows how important it is for them to know where they all stand in the order.

Some of them see themselves in her, she knows. The ones who envision this as a step on their own journey into stardom. Some of them are happy enough to be as close as they’ve gotten. 

She calls them all together half an hour before they’re set to take the stage for their usual ramp up speech. They bring their hands together in their usual pre-show ritual, but she changes up the speech, just for tonight. “It’s a special night,” she tells them, because it is, because it’s the last of this tour and they’ll never have it back again, “The end of every tour is always a little different than the rest of the tour, than every other tour that you’re on. And it’s going to be special because we’re at home. So we’re going to bring everything that we’ve got, we’re going to leave it all out there on stage, and we’re going to leave knowing that we gave it absolutely everything. All right?”

They all press in together, the circle closing in tighter and tighter, and then they’re screaming and cheering in a circle all around her, lifting her up into their arms.

She laughs as she rocks back on the tide of dancers, screaming with surprise.

When they set her back down, she wobbles on her feet, as nervous as she was the first time.

  
(On their first international stadium tour together, she’d been so nervous she’d made herself nauseous with it. Playing the small stages and clubs had been easy enough to compare with the kinds of shows they’d played so far, but walking the empty stadium, she couldn’t help but feel how small they all were in comparison to the seats that stretched all the way back into the nosebleeds. The kinds of places where they might have sat once not that long ago, spilling beer over each other, bopping their heads along to the music.

The boys didn’t like to admit how nervous they were, but she could tell it hit them the same way too. A reminder of where their hard work had led them, and what they were expected to accomplish next, a sense of stakes. They could make or break their careers with a bad set of stadium shows, but they all pretended that it was just another stop on another tour.

That night, before they took to the stage for the first time, it took them all three or four shots to calm themselves enough to play anything that sounded good.

She remembers Luke’s heavy hand when he poured them all their first shots, grinning at them as he raised his Solo cup in toast. _Here’s to making it,_ he’d said.

They clinked their cups together and choked their shots down, laughing at each other’s expressions as they suffered through the heat of the liquor.)

  
_Here’s to making it_ , she thinks, stepping onto the motorized platform and counting down the beats to her entrance.

  
He’s never been to one of her shows.

He’s seen her perform before, seen her emotionally raw and charged, polished and glittering, smiling for the cameras and for all the world, but he’s never seen her live, in her element, surrounded by thousands of her screaming fans. It’s been a long time since he’s been to a stadium show like this where he wasn’t also on stage, and it’s surreal to be surrounded by what seems like teen girls on all sides, clutching drinks and phones with the same claw grip, squealing and grinning through the opener about what they expect to see from her.

Usually, if he’s being honest, he’s blitzed out of his mind in one way or another, and what he can pull out of the times before this is not much. Flashes of skimpy or tight outfits, of the heat of her glare on him from the stage, of some snide comments he made to whoever dragged him along. It seems stupid to blame it all on the alcohol, or on what he was going through, or on how bad things were then, but he has to blame it on something and he’d rather not pin it on himself.

Alex drapes his arm over his shoulders and gives him a hard squeeze. “Relax,” he says. “Chill.”

“I’m relaxed,” Luke says, but he knows he isn’t fooling anybody.

“You look like Elroy when he has to get his shots,” Alex says.

He shrugs out of his grasp. “I’m good.”

Alex laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “You seem like it.”

“If you haven’t seen her before, you’re in for a surprise,” Reggie says. “Girl puts on a show.”

“Oh, yeah,” Alex says. “Wait for it.”

When the countdown flickers on the jumbotrons and the crowd around him starts vibrating with energy, screaming at the top of their lungs, he figures they might be right.

She explodes on stage in a shower of pyrotechnics and bright stage lighting, surrounded by two dozen backup dancers. She announces herself in a long, lilting run, her voice crisp and high. The crowd screams, jumping up and down on their feet. By the time the music crashes in with the intro, everyone’s already losing their minds.

Alex knocks his shoulder against his. “Told you,” he says.

Even from hundreds of feet away, he thinks, from the tallest of the nosebleeds, it’d be impossible to miss her, the largeness of her voice and how she carries herself, how she marches herself around the stage and leads her dancers.

Even from where they sit, in a cordoned-off area near to the stage, he can hear all the detail and force in her voice, the light and joy in her face. 

She raises the mic up towards her mouth and laughs at the crowd’s reaction. “It’s great to be home!” she says, coy and breathy to the crowd.

They all give a screaming cheer.

“Thank you,” she says, “for such a warm welcome back.”

This time, when the beat drops, they all jump onto their feet.

All around them, he can see people moving and singing along, dressed up in costumes, repeating the key pieces of her choreography. It’s the music, but it’s not just the music—it’s her that’s reached them too, what she means to them, what the sight of her represents. They’re all screaming her name at the top of their lungs through almost every song, sometimes punctuated by lyrics, sometimes not, and he rocks back and forth on his heels and rides the wave of energy.

It’s more than love of the music, he realizes. It’s love for her—pure and honest.

He can understand that better than anyone.

  
Alex somehow smuggles them backstage after the show and they pass through crowds of crying dancers, frustrated techies trying to dismantle set pieces, and dozens of assistants chattering on their phones back towards the green room. When he kicks open the door, she’s sitting in front of the vanity, turning towards them with a swear on the tip of her tongue when she squeals and runs to throw herself into Alex’s arms.

She grins and punches him hard in the arm. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Alex laughs, rubbing at his arm. “Jesus,” he says. “What a way to say thank you.”

Reggie squeezes her in a hug and spins her around.

“Last show, Molina,” Alex says. “Tradition says we get to celebrate.”

“Yeah?” she says. “I don’t remember you being on this tour.”

“Tough shit,” Alex says. “We’re taking you out.”

“Taking me hostage?” Julie says.

“Something like that.”

“Hey,” she says, when she spots him.

He walks towards her and gives her a brief clap of a hug, careful not to touch her too long, not to do too much of anything. But she pats him twice on the back and grazes a kiss over his cheek.

“Well,” Alex says. “Sizzler, anyone?”

She blinks at him and doesn’t say anything else, and he nods mutely, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Sounds great,” he says.

Reggie smacks him hard on the back. “Look at Luke, getting into the spirit.”

Alex smirks. “Getting into something maybe.”

“Shut up,” Julie says.

“Are we going or not?”

Julie holds up a finger and hunts around the room for a second, setting out plastic cups and pouring splashes of something direct into the cups. She hands each of them one and raises hers in toast. “Since we’re going by tradition after all.”

They raise their cups and down them at the same time.

Reggie pumps his fist. “All right. What next?”

  
They wind up with about eight bags of In-n-Out between them, splayed out on the floor of Alex’s living room, splitting bottles of vodka. Julie’s the heaviest pourer of them all, and they make their way through the first bottle, toasting the end of her tour, the start of her vacation, her show.

Alex grins and wolfs another bite of his burger. “Luke’s never gone to see one of your shows, you know.”

She raises her glass up to her lips and sucks on the edge. “Is that so?”

He swallows and shrugs. “Never had the chance.”

“A likely story,” Reggie clucks. 

There’s a spark of challenge in her eyes as she rests her elbow on her knee and leans towards him. “So what did you think?” she says. There’s a flush of color in her cheeks, but the twist of her mouth is all humor.

“No pressure or anything,” Alex says.

Julie rolls her eyes. “Like he’s ever held himself back from telling me what he really thinks.”

Luke scoffs, laughing. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She laughs, her face brightening. “It means that if it isn’t set to four guitars in 7/8, you don’t care.”

Reggie shrugs at him. “She’s got a point, dude.”

He shakes his head. “Just because I called you out for your boring choices…”

She crawls towards him from the floor, her hair falling in front of her shoulders, menacing a scowl at him. 

He sets his hand on top of her head and ruffles her hair.

“Fuck you,” she says, without any bite. “You write shit that nobody can dance to.”

Alex clasps his arms around his knees and blinks at him innocently. “Are you just going to take that, Luke?”

“Yeah, Luke,” Julie echoes. “Are you?”

Reggie drums his hands against the floor. “Battle of the bands!”

Luke glances at him, shaking his head. “What are you talking about?” he says.

And then Alex is grabbing acoustic guitars and handing him one. “Put your money where your mouth is, Luke,” he says, grinning.

He stands, nudging Reggie with his knee to hand him the vodka bottle. Taking a quick pull, he slings the strap of the guitar over his neck and starts riffing. He’s not even really sure what he’s playing, or if it’s anyone else’s song, but he hums nonsense syllables over it as he strums through a percussive melody, bopping his head to the beat.

“Ooh, judges like that,” Reggie says.

“Judges _do_ ,” Alex says.

He warbles his best Dylan impression, scratchy howls from the back of his throat, and closes on a quick atonal strum of the strings.

“And now, the response,” Alex intones, affecting a British accent.

Julie sniffs haughtily, rising to her feet and rolling her shoulders. “Reg, the bottle?” 

Luke grips the bottle by the neck and holds it out to her.

Her fingers brushing his, she grips the neck, her eyes level with his as she takes an equal pull. She winces when she pulls it away, coughing lightly, and hands it back to Reggie. 

“Want the guitar?” Reggie says.

“Oh, I don’t need all of that,” she says, grinning.

Alex snickers from his position on the floor.

She drums a beat against her thighs, pulling a face at him as she sets herself up. And then she’s speak-singing like he hasn’t heard her do in years before she closes with a melodic run, dramatic as an aria.

Reggie starts picking a line on the guitar underneath her, Alex drumming a secondary rhythm under hers. She keeps going, improvising lines, spinning rhymes out of nothing as they build the sound up around her.

He pulls his guitar to his chest and starts playing a counter against her voice, scatting underneath her vocals.

She laughs as she sings through the rest of the line.

Luke nods at them. “We should get this down,” he says.

Alex balls up a napkin and flings it in his face.

“Jules,” he says.

“She’s on vacation, dude!” Reggie calls.

Alex hands him the vodka bottle. “Vacation,” he repeats, enunciating each syllable. “Take a drink.”

He takes the bottle and splashes down a gulp.

“Vacation,” Alex repeats.

  
Despite his best efforts, none of them agree to start writing. Instead, they finish off the bottles of vodka and crack open a bottle of rum. It’s a night out like the old days—a lot of talking shit and laughing over things they remember differently, singing their old songs and forgetting half the words—and it’s stupid to say he’s forgotten how much he loves to be around them, but he’s surprised by it every time somehow.

Julie’s easily the drunkest out of all of them, her cheeks glowing a warm red, shouting slightly over the rest of them as she cackles with laughter. Her eyes land on him more than once when she’s in the middle of telling a story or insulting one of the guys, and it takes all of the self-restraint he has not to launch himself across the living room to be closer to her.

He’s still got a guitar in his hands and so does Reggie, and they busy themselves with dueling guitars for a while, moving from famous riffs to their own improv. When Reggie matches him for the fourth complex riff, Luke stretches his leg out to kick Reggie lightly in the shin. “Guys,” he says.

“ _No_ ,” Alex crows, from the other side of the coffee table. “This is my house, and we are not.”

“Listen to this,” Luke stammers, plucking through a complex riff.

Julie nods sagely from her position on the floor.

Reggie echoes it, tweaking it into a different key and building onto it with a different kind of rhythm and chord structure.

“No!” Alex shouts. “What did I say, Luke?”

“Vacation,” Reggie says.

“Thanks, Reg,” Alex says. “Which means?”

“No work,” Reggie says.

“Listen to how good this sounds!” Luke says. “With Julie’s vocals from earlier tonight? We don’t have to go in the studio. Just let’s do it once for real and record it.”

Julie laughs, shaking her head. “You’re never going to change his mind, bro,” she says. “Isn’t that right?”

When he glances at her, she’s looking at him wide-eyed and inviting, and he feels heat shoot straight down. He darts his eyes to the ceiling instead, his fingers picking a wrong note on the chord.

The others erupt into hoots.

“You lose!” Alex shouts. “Reggie, you are the guitar champion.”

“The guitar _hero_ ,” Julie adds.

Luke snorts a laugh, and Alex slides the open rum bottle further down the coffee table. “To the victor go the spoils.”

Reggie takes a pull, and they all cheer.

  
When Willie walks through the door, Luke’s wrestling with Alex on the floor for some reason that he’s since forgotten while Reggie and Julie referee from the couch. Alex has him pinned, his arms wrapped loosely around his neck while he tries to find purchase against the soft rug, when they both freeze at the noise of the door.

“Hi, honey,” Alex says, as they both collapse against the carpet.

Willie laughs. “What’s going on here?”

Julie gestures towards the empty bottles as they both crawl back up to sitting positions. “We are celebrating,” she says. “The end of a tour.”

“Ohhhh,” Willie says. “Celebrating very hard, I see.”

“Luke and Alex are figuring something out,” Julie says. “I don’t know what.”

“Looks like it,” Willie says. He comes to join them by the couches, kissing Alex as he settles in beside him. “Wow, you taste _disgusting_.”

Alex simpers a smile. “That’s true love,” he says. “Thanks, baby.”

“We’re writing,” Luke says, as the others whine and roll their eyes.

“We’re not,” Alex mouths.

“We’re on vacation,” Reggie says.

“I’m on vacation,” Julie says. “You guys are just…”

“Being supportive,” Reggie offers. "On vacation."

Willie laughs. “Okay, well, being supportive is good,” he says. “But I think all of you should crash here tonight. We’ve got a bunch of spare rooms, and none of you should leave unsupervised. None of you should go near the _stove_ unsupervised.”

“Except for me,” Alex announces. “As this is my house.”

Willie shakes his head. “Not even you, babe.”

“That’s good,” Luke chirps, “for the writing.”

“Nobody’s writing,” Reggie hisses.

“Read the room, man,” Julie says.

Willie rises, pressing another kiss to Alex’s head. “I’m going to bring you all some water,” he says. “I think that’s a good idea. And then I’m going to get ready for bed.”

“He’s so good to me,” Alex says.

Luke plucks a clumsy melody line against the guitar. 

Julie climbs over Reggie and throws herself against his back, straining to reach for the neck of the guitar.

He turns to look at her. “What are you doing?”

She strains forward, reaching for the guitar with her left hand. “No more music,” she says, pouting at him slightly. “Give it up.”

His eyes dart down to her mouth. “You want me to give up music?”

“No,” she says. “I want you to give me the guitar.”

He bites back a grin and tilts away from her. “What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll fight you for it.”

Alex shakes his head. “No fighting. Right, honey?”

Willie nods, biting back a laugh, as he sets down four glasses of water on the coffee table. “No fighting,” he says. “I’m about to head to bed, so I’m assuming you all can sort yourselves out. Reg, Jules, you know where the spare rooms are. Luke, you need me to show you?”

Reggie claps a hand to Luke’s shoulder. “We got him.”

Willie nods. “All right,” he says. “I’m going to bed. Nice to see the band back together.”

Luke smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

None of the others say anything else after that.

Alex leaves with Willie, and the rest of them wind it down after that. Reggie stumbles up the stairs towards the spare rooms as Julie clears out the empty glasses into the sink, and Luke abandons the idea of moving for collapsing face-first into the couch cushions.

When he feels a light tap on his shoulder, he mumbles into the pillow.

“Are you coming upstairs or what?”

He grunts and shakes his head. “Fine here. Thanks.”

“It’s not far,” she says.

He shakes his head.

The warmth of her hand ghosts against his skin for a moment, quick enough that he isn’t sure if it’s imagined or real. And then she’s flipping the light switches off on her way up the stairs, and the rest of the night slips into the cool dark.

  
It’s impossible to sleep like this.

Every part of her feels heavy, weighted down by the alcohol, by her exhaustion, by the weight of the light blanket that she’s crawled beneath, and she still can’t find a way to turn her restless mind off. She knows that more than part of it is knowing how close he is, knowing that he’s lying asleep just downstairs, close enough to touch even if she can’t (shouldn’t) be touching him anyway. More than part of it is that she’s also a little too drunk to lie to herself about how much she wants to be touching him.

Of all the complications that come with falling back into something—and she is not in the right frame of mind, drunk or not, to pick apart what that something is—she’s forgotten how much of it has to do with little things like this, with the familiar habits that her body gets used to, with the way that she starts getting used to certain things in her life. Like the weight of someone else’s body in her bed, like the warmth of someone else’s skin beside her own.

She’s never been terrible at sleeping alone, but there are some nights when it comes close to being unbearable. And the fact that he’s waiting just downstairs doesn’t make matters any easier.

She throws off the covers with a grunt, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, and decides to go downstairs for a glass of water. Quick. Simple.

The rest of the house is silent when she tiptoes downstairs and towards the kitchen. She fishes one of the glasses from the cabinet and holds it under the tap as she switches it on, filling it halfway. The water is lukewarm, but she drinks it down anyway because there’s no universe where she isn’t likely to have some kind of hangover tomorrow. And in the dark, she can hear the loud scrape of his breathing, the soft rasp of his snore at the back of his throat.

Setting her glass against the counter, she moves carefully towards the couch, blinking a few times to help her eyes adjust to the dark.

He’s lying face-down on the sectional, his arms spread wide. 

She smiles, reaching to smooth his hair away from his face before she’s even aware of what she’s doing. His hair is soft against her fingers, brushing lightly against his forehead as she tracks it away from his face.

He stirs with a quiet noise, rolling onto his side and blinking up at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just…getting a glass of water.”

He spreads his arms wide, scooting back on the sofa until his back hits the couch cushions. “C’mere,” he mumbles.

She kneels beside the couch, leaning her face against the edge of the seat.

“Jules,” he says, sleepily. “In or out?”

And isn’t that the million-dollar question. But he’s already drifting back into sleep, so she takes a seat on the edge and carefully shifts to lie down beside him.

“Good,” he mumbles, his arms tightening around her middle and pulling her in close, tossing the throw blanket over both of them. He’s spooned up behind her, his head nestled against the thick mass of her hair, arm braced against her ribcage.

She stretches her feet down towards his.

“Okay?” he says.

He’s a furnace of warmth, and she hums with satisfaction as she curls up against him. “Good night,” she whispers, closing her eyes.

He pecks a kiss against her mouth and drifts back to sleep.

  
(In the morning, she wakes up first with a pounding headache to the smell of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.

Opening her eyes against the early morning sunshine, she finds Willie barefoot in the kitchen, whistling. When he spots her, he flashes her a grin. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, sing-song in a way that she doesn’t like.

He pours her a large cup of coffee, and sets bread in the toaster to toast as she climbs carefully off of the sofa and pads over.

“What kind of hungover are you?”

“Coffee, please,” she mumbles, taking it from him with a quick nod of acknowledgement. It’s too hot to drink, but she gulps down a few sips anyway.

“So what happened?” he says, with that sly smile. “Is the band back together?”

She wrinkles her eyebrows, trying to read his tone, but shakes her head. “We were just celebrating,” she says. 

Willie hums under his breath. “Whatever you say,” he says. “Drink your coffee.”)

  
For the next few weeks, she can’t get that song out of her head. Or, really, pieces of the song that wasn’t really a song from their after-tour celebration. One of the guitar lines that he built loops endlessly in her head until she can’t do anything else but lock herself in her music room at home and try to write it all out.

She’s never been like the boys, keen to invite the music into her home in the same way that she lives with it outside. Even when they were living out of the garage, the studio was still separate from the apartment, even if by nothing other than a tiny smoker’s corner that passed for a courtyard. Music’s always been a huge part of her life, but she’s never let it become the defining point of it—it’s something that she chooses to do, not something that she is. 

But there are pianos in her house and sheet music and the barest of recording equipment because the reality is that sometimes she doesn’t want to leave her house, and she still needs to get things done. And there’s a small part of her that finds comfort in seeing them there—the pianos, stable and strong in their sounds, in the way that their keys feel—the way that she felt whenever she walked into her mom’s studio. It’s nice to be reminded that things still have their places sometimes.

She transposes his guitar line into a piano part, keeping the percussive rhythm and adding complexity in the harmonies. She can already hear how he’d build it—the drum sounds, the sharp tang of reverb that cuts through parallel, echoing guitar lines, the buzz of a bass hook.

It’s so easy to hear him between the lines of the music that she tries to get down on paper, easy to lean into the structured roughness of the sound that he likes. 

She lays one piece of it, then another, building out the demo over the course of the day.

When it’s done, she plays it back twice, listening to see if she can still hear the baseline of his sound ringing through it.

She renders the file and burns it to CD, tossing it in a mailer with a quick scribbled note. With a quick text to her assistant, it goes out with the courier and she doesn’t have to think about it any more.

  
He gets an unlabeled envelope hand-delivered a couple days later, and tosses it with the rest of the day’s mail. There are bills that he hasn’t looked at, messages from Mike that he has to deal with, questions from the label that probably need meetings to answer. But he isn’t in a mood to deal with any of the bullshit today, retiring to the inner chambers of his studio where he can play around on his guitars and write in peace.

It’s one of the challenging days today, the kind of day when everything feels like it’s pulled through a meat grinder before he can get it to shape as an idea, when the only thing he can manage to do is scrape together bullshit. There’s a headache behind his eyes that he tries to work through, and his mind is thousands of miles away, back on that sofa in Alex’s living room, back in a world where he and Julie live in the same time, in the same place, in the same reality.

But she’s still one of the biggest superstars in the world, having just ended another superstar international tour with her eyes set on the next one, while he’s trying to pull together sentences for a song that he could sell—if not for himself as a single, then at least to someone else who’d get more airplay out of it.

His studio’s one of the few places in his house where he can hear nothing of the outside world except what he chooses to bring into the silence, and usually that’s enough to get some kind of idea flowing or at least give him some room to play around with the creaks on the floor, with the passing ambient noise that can get him to think about atmosphere. But he isn’t thinking about that at all. He’s thinking about how cool she felt in his arms, the smell of her shampoo that seemed to cling to his clothes for days afterward. He’s thinking of how she looked in his t-shirt in the morning after the nights they spent together, the easy way that she always took his clothes for her own. (She can take whatever she wants from him as far as he’s concerned; everything that he has is basically hers anyway.)

Inside the studio today, he has his phone on silent, though it doesn’t matter if he’s checking it every few minutes. The scrolls through social media haven’t done much to distract or inspire him, only led him down a few viral rabbit holes that have managed to eat up the early afternoon hours. But he sits and gamely plucks at his six-string in the hopes of hearing something that he might have missed.

Something will come to him sooner or later.

Something always does.

  
By the time he emerges back out into his house, it’s dinnertime and he’s skipped two meals and gotten nowhere.

He makes himself a pot of coffee and orders food, and it’s when he’s waiting for it to come that he decides to tear into the mail. He keeps what’s important, scribbles notes on the backs of envelopes for anything that he needs to follow up on, and tosses out anything that doesn’t matter.

The mailer is the last thing he opens. 

There’s a folded piece of notebook paper and a CD in a plastic sleeve, unmarked.

He scoffs a laugh, unfolding the paper carefully. It’s been a long time since anyone’s sent him an unmarked demo.

 _i don’t know how to get anything on fucking tape, you weirdo_ , the note reads. _but this seems like it’d be for you. xx j_

He grins.

The first time he listens to the track, he thinks that it’s so different from anything that he’s heard her write recently. Nothing about it has the touch of her sound or her taste. It takes him another two listens to hear everything else that she’s doing—the syncopated rhythms, the interesting key changes, the heavy use of reverb and drum machine on the track. 

It’s for him, he thinks. A track that she built for him.

He listens to it again, picking out what he likes, the pieces of it that sound familiar. If he listens really carefully, he can still hear her touches on it, no matter how much she tries to bury it beneath all of his usual bullshit. There’s a subtle melodic shift in the harmony that lightens the percussive weight, light swing in the rhythm, and bluesy touches throughout that signal her personal touch—so well hidden that anyone that heard it would have to be listening for it.

It’s the kind of songwriting that he’s never heard from her, the kind that she grew into after the break-up of the band. Part of him wishes that he had been there to see how she grew into it, how she reclaimed her writing voice after years of being with the Phantoms, but he knows that it wouldn’t have been the same journey if he had been there. It would have ended up slightly differently, would have had too much of his influence in it one way or another.

And no matter how much he hates to have missed it, part of him thrills at hearing how self-possessed she is over her own skill and craft, how much fun she’s having when she knows what she wants to do and how to do it.

She’s always been one of the best in the game, and he’s never tired of hearing her in action.

  
He doesn’t change what she’s written, but he adds to it. Layers in some vocal harmonies, isolates certain parts of the guitar section, mixes the percussion to add in some depth. He writes in a piano line because he can hear it missing, a higher part to blend in with the weight of everything else that she’s written.

He calls the boys and plays it for them over speakerphone.

Alex groans over the line. “You really got to get a place out here, dude,” he says. “This long-distance back-and-forth thing is a pain in the ass.”

He rewinds the track to the chorus and plays it through again. “What do you think?”

“I think that your speakers are shit,” Reggie says, chuckling. “Send us the track.”

“It could use your touch,” he says, tapping along with the beat. “I think it needs something extra.”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t know how to write, we get it,” Alex cracks.

Luke laughs. “Hey,” he says. “Better watch it before she hears what you’re saying about her shit.”

“She’s writing shit for you too now?” Alex says.

Luke hums over the line.

“What’s, uh, what’s going on there?” Reggie says.

“Subtle, Reg.”

“I’m just saying,” Reggie says, laughing quietly, “Seems like things are thawing out a little bit.”

He shrugs before he realizes that they can’t see him. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s, uh, a day at a time, I guess.”

“Time for you to move your ass back to California,” Alex says.

He hums. “Maybe.”

  
He considered buying a place once. A little place for their little life—someplace for Oogy and Boogie to run around, places for them to write, for their instruments, for her to find her peace and for the two of them to hole away together.

No matter how much she likes to pretend otherwise, he knows exactly how much it means to her. He can still remember the early days when she would leave traces of herself all over their shared apartment, dragging color and brightness and joy into their living room to live alongside their Craigslist couch and their cheap Walmart posters of bands and movies that they loved.

When things were going downhill, he liked to live in the fantasy of that house—to imagine what their lives would look like once they managed to figure everything out, how she would transform the space into her own, what her face would look like when they walked through the front door for the first time. And when that fantasy faded and there was nothing left for him to salvage, he took what he could and dragged it into his own space.

He left her California and made himself a sanctuary somewhere her memory couldn’t go. And his house became a testament to everything that he had outside of her—his dogs and his music, and a starkness of living that reminded him of what he actually needed to get by. 

But now, when he considers it, he can’t picture her there either. Among Oogy and Boogie in the sunshine, her bare back to the sky, half-leaning off of a chair to pet them, sure, but in his cool, dark cabin in the middle of the wilderness? She’s never been the kind to hide herself from the world, and he’s never wanted to be responsible for hiding her light.

Maybe it’s time for him to stop hiding too.

  
He convinces Alex and Reggie to take a few days and drive out to Utah to write. They complain the entire time about the drive and the hassle, but he knows they’re more than happy to get out of the city, away from the label and the traffic. Out at his place, there’s nothing and no one to bother them, and they spend hours of the day fucking around in his yard, playing around with different sounds and structures, waking up too late and writing into the night, talking shit about all of the famous people they don’t like and a couple that they do.

Writing with the boys can go either way—some days, it’s like they share a single thought, like their hands aren’t fast enough to catch all of the ideas that are coming out, but there are other times too when they’re fighting about everything and every idea that comes feels like it’s half-baked or tired, unfixable. This go-around is one of the in-between times. He can hear how hard they’re working at something that sounds familiar, but fresh and original, and it’s not working, but they’re all still getting along and having a good time.

They’re already talking about tour ideas even though they haven’t laid a single track, looking forward to going overseas for the first time in years. “It’s our time to shine, man,” Reggie says. “Time for a comeback.”

Luke scoffs. “Sunset Curve didn’t go anywhere,” he says. “The music was always there.”

“Maybe we were, but the music wasn’t,” Alex says.

He shakes his head. “I’m getting too old for that kind of thing,” he says. “Living out of hotels, eating shitty food?”

“No stage acrobatics for you, old man,” Reggie says.

Maybe it’s the Hall of Fame, maybe it’s the two-week cold that knocked him out from the middle of the tour on, but he’s started to rethink what the rest of his life looks like. Music has always been the reason he gets out of bed in the morning, the first thing that he thinks about, the thing that’s always run his life from behind the scenes, but he’s starting to wonder whether or not he can keep it up in the long run. Even if he hadn’t had that stretch of bad years, the touring has started to shred at his voice as much as it’s taken to tearing at his body. He’s done what he set out to do—make his mark on the world, share his music, and keep going. But there has to come a time when he moves onto something different, something new.

He hasn’t thought about something new in a long time.

“What do you think of this?” Reggie says, tweaking through a lick on the guitar. It’s folksier than what they’ve written in the past, rhythmic and light.

Luke plays a crisp rolling guitar line that rides right on top.

“Right on,” Reggie says. “A little Pete Seeger.”

Alex scoffs. “ _Pete Seeger_?” he says. “That’s what you’re going for?”

“A little Dylan, a little Petty,” Luke says.

“A little Patterson, too, maybe,” Alex says.

“A lot of Patterson,” Reggie laughs.

They spend the rest of the night in the recording booth, surrounded by open bottles of beer and containers of Chinese takeout. The booth was never meant to hold more than himself, maybe two people in a tight squeeze, but Alex and Reggie don’t care. They pile in alongside him as they do the tracks in sequence—the instruments first, then the vocals, then the backups and harmonies.

He sends them the rendered files and hands them the raw tapes.

Alex rattles the cassette with a light laugh. “You know you’re still the only one who does shit like this anymore?”

He scoffs. “Not the only one,” he says.

“Maybe it’s time to upgrade, man.”

“Maybe,” he says.

He thinks about telling them everything—about how he thinks about walking away from it all sometimes, about how he isn’t the same person that he was years ago, about what’s going on with him and Julie, about whether he can call it anything that goes on—but he can’t find the right words. They’re the closest things he’s ever had to brothers in this world, and that makes everything harder somehow.

It means that everything he tells them means something.

It means that he can’t hide anymore, can’t lie anymore. It means that he has to look in the mirror and face, in some small way, everything that he’s ever done.

It means owning up to what he’s done to all of them—to himself.

“Hey,” Reggie says, kicking him in the shin. “You still with us, old man?”

He tries a smile. “Yeah,” he says.

“You all right?” Alex says.

How do you apologize for years of going quiet, of not being a good enough friend, bandmate, person? How do you start to answer for everything that you’ve already buried? “I just,” he starts. “I’m thinking about Sunset Curve, about how we got started.”

Alex snorts a laugh. “The garage again?” he says. “You got to get out of there, man. The fumes take you bad places.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a sheepish smile. “But it’s where I met you guys. It’s where we kick started our lives.”

Reggie wraps his arms around him and gives his ribs a punishing squeeze. “This is absolutely time for a hug.”

Alex piles in behind them, knocking them all to the ground. 

“You’re not dying, are you?” Reggie says.

He laughs. “No,” he says.

“I mean,” Alex squeaks, “Technically, aren’t we always dying?”

And then they’re on him, squeezing him so hard it’s almost hard to breathe. “Get off me!” he howls, laughing too hard to speak. But that only makes them dig in harder.

  
It’s late in the night when he plays them her track for the first time. They’re a couple drinks into the good whiskey, all of them hovering on the edge of sleepy and tipsy that makes for the kinds of conversations he’s never ready to have. Alex sinks back into the cushions of his couch and takes a thoughtful sip, but doesn’t say anything.

“There’s something missing,” he says.

Alex hums, but doesn’t say anything, and takes another sip. “Who is this for?” he says, after a pause.

Luke turns to him. “What do you mean?”

“Who is this for?” he repeats, like that’s any clearer. “Is the song for you or for her?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t thought about it,” he says. “She wrote it so I think—I think she should sing it.”

“It doesn’t sound like her,” Reggie says.

“No,” Alex adds. “It doesn’t.”

He knows they’re waiting for the full story, for him to admit to something about what they’ve been doing, about who they are. He doesn’t know how to tell them that the only story he knows is the one that he thought ended years ago, that he’s as in the dark about this as they are, that he doesn’t even know how to begin. They had something once, and he ruined it, and now they have the promise of a new beginning, and? And whatever comes after it is up to her.

He used to write music for himself, and then for her, and for them, and now he writes music because it’s the only thing he still knows how to do. He’s spent years thinking about making his name that he’s forgotten that there are other things that need building too—other parts of a life that are more than just how other people see him. But those are the kinds of lessons that take lifetimes to figure out maybe, he thinks, and maybe he’s been slower at it than others. Not everyone can be like Alex and Willie, settled and comfortable and so sure about everything that nothing could touch them.

Not everyone gets to know that kind of love, that kind of life.

“She sent it to me,” he says, aiming for casual. And, for their part, they manage to keep neutral faces even though he’s known them long enough to read the light spark of surprise in their expressions.

“Interesting,” Reggie says.

“I think she’s trying to write different shit than what she’s used to,” he says.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Right.”

“I’m trying to—I don’t know—learn how to do that too,” he says, rubbing his palms together.

“What?”

“Write something different,” he says. “Be something different.”

“You’re never too old to change,” Reggie says, lightly.

“Yeah,” he says.

The track ends and he loops it to play from the beginning again. They listen to the shaking rattle of percussion that she has, something built to sound retro and textured, but it’s still a little too polished. If she wants to go dirty, she has to go dirty—all the way, or nothing. Music doesn’t do halfway.

“Get some 808s in there maybe,” Alex says. “A _Depeche Mode_ kind of thing?” He starts to tap his hands against the edge of the table, an offset cadence of a fill that gives the track a bit more depth.

Luke nods along with the beat, his body leaning into the movement. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. Reaching for a guitar, he starts strumming along against the track. The notes come crisp and pure, ringing against the heavy production of the backing.

Reggie chuckles. “A little John Denver,” he says. “Nice.”

“I think this’ll work,” he says.

“Yeah?” Alex says. “For you or for her?”

“For us,” he says, testing the word in his mouth. “Maybe.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Alex says.

“Maybe he’s figuring it out,” Reggie adds.

Luke nods back towards the track, and Alex kicks him underneath the table. He wipes at his mouth, and tries to focus on the song.

“I don’t know if it sounds like her,” Alex says.

“It could,” Reggie says.

“I told her I still love her,” Luke says.

Reggie’s foot slips off the edge of the coffee table, and lands hard on the ground.

“I’m sorry—” Alex squeaks.

“Can you repeat that?” Reggie says.

“—you told her you _love her_? When did this happen?”

He buries his face in his hands and sighs. “Cleveland.”

“Fucking Cleveland,” Alex says, snapping his hand against Reggie’s arm. “I told you!”

“Is this…” Reggie says. “What is this?”

“What?” Luke says.

“This,” Reggie says, more firmly. “The song, the writing, the—what are you doing?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what she wants. I don’t think she knows.”

“I don’t think you know,” Alex says. “Both of you are just…”

“How’d she take it?” 

“She’s…processing,” he says. “You know how she is.”

They both nod.

“But I thought…” he starts, interrupting himself, “I mean, I’ve been thinking about Sunset Curve, about…what comes next after this. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I want you guys to be there. And…it felt like you should know. Like I should tell you.”

Alex opens his mouth to say something, and closes it again. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good,” Luke says. “As good as I can be, I guess. Things feel different this time, you know?”

Reggie claps his hand to his shoulder. “Good for you, man,” he says. “I hope you two crazy kids can work it out.”

Alex snickers. “Reg.”

“Be excellent to each other, I guess,” Reggie says, “and party on.”

Luke punches him in the arm. “Shut up.”

  
They do the edits and fills in another two hours, and lay the track quickly after that.

He has them all jot down little notes to her on a sheet of paper that he wraps around the cassette.

 _If you miss us, just call_ , Alex writes.

 _write with us more (and KILLER key change)_ , Reggie writes.

 _i think this could be a duet_ , he writes. _hope you don’t mind the changes._

The cassette gets popped into a mailer, and he scribbles her address against the envelope.

Alex claps him on the shoulder. “21st century, man,” he says. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

“Maybe.”

  
The first time she listens to the updated track, she’s surprised by how different it sounds. Than what she expected, than what she thought they would write. Maybe that’s what happens when you know a group of people too well for too long—you start to think that you know everything they can do, their limits and their peaks, filling in everything that you don’t know with what you can cobble together from who you understand them to be.

The point is it doesn’t sound like Sunset Curve. It doesn’t sound like Luke or like her; it sounds fresh and new, untouched by any of their old hallmarks. 

Luke’s never liked to write anything that didn’t sound like him, but she can hear how much he’s stepped back on the track to showcase the leading parts of the song. The whining hum of the bass line, the driving weight of the percussion, the suggestion of a vocal melody. He keeps his favorites—the crystal guitar line, the slick production—but he knows enough to let her parts of the song breathe. She can hear what Reggie and Alex have done too, where they’ve pulled the sagging bits in to bind it tighter, to heighten the contrasts and the emotions, to build it. It sounds like all of them and none of them at the same time. 

There’s a note that comes wrapped around the tape and she fixes it to the door of her fridge beside her older photos—one from Carlos’ graduation dinner, old group photos of the Phantoms when they were young and glistening with promise, a ton of photos with her and Flynn, and a handful from Flynn’s wedding. Luke’s handwriting is still abominable, covering nearly half the page, but she finds herself staring at it whenever she passes through the kitchen.

Duet is a short word that punches above its weight.

Duet whispers a lot of things that she hasn’t given thought to in a long time.

She’s never been able to figure out what’s given them the most trouble—the music, or the two of them. They always wanted the same things until they didn’t, and she doesn’t know if it’s the music that went bad or if it was the two of them—growing older, growing apart, the way that people do. Some things don’t come with easy answers and it’s taken her a handful of counselors and nearly a decade to learn that, but sometimes it feels like she’s taking a test she never studied for and everything is in front of her and she just has to make it make sense.

She listens to the track again and pictures a world around the song. A car driving along an empty highway, a forest in the wintertime, running away from something.

Or, maybe, running towards. (Or aren’t they the same thing?)

  
_stealing my time like it ain’t worth anything_   
_fashion the alibi out of old reasoning_   
_leaving no kind of trace_   
_working the facts ’til you make ‘em sing_   
_drive me back out of straight charity_   
_saving nothing but face_

_here it’s december all the time_   
_wet snow and sweet bourbon on your mind_   
_there’s nothing left to keep you behind_   
_‘cept the wrongs that you choose_   
_drifting us out past the trees_   
_til you can’t see nothing but me_   
_banks of snow over a world asleep_   
_with the hearts that you’ve bruised_

  
When she sends him the early sketches of lyrics that she has, he asks her about the world of the song. 

She tells him about winter, about a town quieted beneath a wall of snow. She tells him it should be obvious. It’s second chances that aren’t chances at all. It’s about finding someone you thought you’d lost and trying to unearth a beginning out of a lost cause. It’s about losing yourself in the past because it’s better than the present.

He’s quiet on the line as she tells him about the world.

 _They’re married, but to other people,_ she whispers over the line. _And maybe they knew each other when they were younger, and they knew what they once dreamed about. Coming back to each other feels like coming back to that dream._

 _And is that what makes them happy?_ , he says. _Being inside of that dream?_

 _Being inside of a dream doesn’t make you happy_ , she says. _It makes you think about what you have and what you want. It makes you reflect on things._

He asks her if it’s a call and response, or if she pictures the harmonies layering differently. And in her head, it’s not that they’re talking to one another but that they’re building both sides of the same dream. In her head, they’re two parts of a single voice, a single desire.

 _If he could make that choice all over again_ , she says, _maybe he would have chosen her._

_And is that what he’s learning in the song?_

She hums, a little uncertain. _I don’t know._

_I don’t think it should be call and response._

_Then it’s just about her? About what she wants?_

_Build it out in the second verse_ , he says. _You can still write at what he’s thinking. Even if she can’t see it, maybe everyone else can._

_You make it sound so easy._

And then it goes quiet on the line, just his breathing coming through even and slow. It sounds like they could be lying next to each other in bed, and she can picture him bare-chested under the covers, his head tilted back against the headboard, fingers tapping a rhythm against the mattress. It’s those moments when he does most of his writing, even when he doesn’t know that he’s writing. It’s those moments when she can feel exactly the stretch of distance between the edge of the world and what he’s thinking.

 _Come on_ , he says. _You’ve done it a thousand times._

 _You do it then, big shot_ , she says. _Show me what you got._

He sends her the answer a week later, a photo of a scribbled set of verses on a napkin.

_counting the years lost to late reckonings_   
_lose sight of the tears for all of the questioning_   
_say you’re lost and confused_   
_missing my weight beside you in the night_   
_it’s not too late to say it was hindsight_   
_you can’t outrun this truth_

_trying once more to see if it turns around_   
_can’t spy the shore for how we’ve run aground_   
_hoping this time it takes_   
_lose sight of the man for that bright-eyed boy_   
_fighting for love instead of fighting for joy_   
_don’t call it a mistake_

_here it’s december all the time_   
_wet snow and sweet bourbon on your mind_   
_there’s nothing left to keep you behind_   
_‘cept the wrongs that you choose_   
_drifting us out past the trees_   
_til you can’t see nothing but me_   
_banks of snow over a world asleep_   
_with the hearts that you’ve bruised_

_It needs a bridge_ , she tells him, because it does. Because they’re two and a half minutes into a song and everything is steady and unchanging, and it needs a jolt into something new.

He fights with her about it for another minute, arguing that it doesn’t, that the weight of the melody settles everything down into its own gravity anyway. He fights with her because he likes to fight and to push her, to make her figure out what she’s willing to battle over in her music. She used to hate the idea that he was testing her to figure out where her lines lay, used to hate that he thought he could speak for what her intentions were about the lines that she wrote.

Now it’s just another answer that she owes somebody.

 _But it can’t keep going like this_ , she says, _Going and going and going. You need to break it up with something new. The world needs to change._

He chuckles over the line, warm and soft. The sound soaks right through her, all fondness and familiarity. _What are you thinking?_

She’s thinking of summer, and the first time they walked among the cherry blossoms in Japan. She’s thinking of the moment when a girl in the movies goes down the stairs and somebody opens their eyes for the first time about somebody else. It’s a moment of truth, that’s what she’s thinking, and how that can go either way—good or bad or in between or nothing at all. Honesty doesn’t promise anything other than honesty.

 _Write it down_ , he says. _Write it down and show me._

 _What is this, a homework assignment?_ , she says.

But they both know that she’ll do it.

_dripping frost into spring, the hope that february brings_   
_summer loves and winter flings, and the things left behind_   
_walking tall into the heat, i’ve loved and admitted defeat_   
_nothing left but to finally meet the end of the road_

_leaving december in the lights_   
_memories of you finally laid aside_   
_took nothing that would lock me tight_   
_‘cept the wounds that ain’t healed_   
_lost sight of the trees in the night_   
_ducking the final blows of this fight_   
_miles of green under new sunrise_   
_and i’m setting us loose_

A month and a half later and he breezes into LA for business. A meeting with his manager or the label, or a few talks with some venues for some secret shows. She hears whispers through Alex and Reggie, but they know about as much as she suspects and nothing more.

He doesn’t tell her anything without her asking, and she doesn’t feel like being one to ask. So they leave it alone, but he asks to meet her for lunch. To catch up, he says, which means to write.

If she minded the writing, she would hate it. But it’s been a few weeks and she misses their nightly text check-ins about the song and what they’re working on, and she finds that she doesn’t mind much. She picks an old taco spot that Carlos put her on years ago, where the folks know her and chat with her lightly in Spanish before remembering that she can’t quite keep up.

There’s a few rickety tables with folding chairs, and they pile into one of the distant ones and drip taco grease against thin napkins.

“You don’t really write sad songs,” he says, after a bite.

She scoffs, wolfing down the rest of her taco and wiping the tips of her fingers against a dry napkin. “Like you, you mean?”

“Like at all,” he says.

And maybe that’s true. She’s usually left that for other singers, other writers. She prefers the sharper emotions, the ones that can be backed up with a little speed, a little more force, heavy guitars and heavy drums and bass.

She blinks up at him between a sip of her drink. “Is that a bad thing?”

He shrugs. “Just an observation.”

“Sounds like a judgment.”

“Just an observation,” he repeats.

She steals one of his fries and bites into it with a slight nod. “Is it sad?”

He tilts his head and looks at her. “ _Lose sight of the man for the bright-eyed boy?_ ”

She raises an eyebrow. “ _That’s_ what you think is sad?”

He shrugs. “I think it’s sad.”

“Is it a good sad song?” she says.

He nods and polishes off another taco.

“You think I should write more?”

He shrugs and tilts his head, glancing at her. “Are you the kind of person who writes sad songs now?”

She considers the question. “Wasn’t I before?”

She’s never thought of herself as the kind of artist who prefers one kind of song to another, one kind of style to another. She prefers to dabble, to try styles on like outfits and to let the audience decide what fits her.

Maybe that’s always been her problem — letting the audience decide.

“You’ve never liked that kind of thing,” he says. “Dwelling. Sad songs like to do that.”

She aims her plastic fork at him. “You do, too.”

He grins. “I’m the kind that likes a sad song.”

She flashes him a mocking, exaggerated frown. “Sad man.”

“I’m not the one who wrote this one,” he says. “What are you calling it anyway?”

“I’m thinking of something like _The Trees_.”

He nods. “Like ‘forest for the?’” he says. “I like it.”

She smiles. “Me too.”

“If you’re serious about it, you should cut a track for it. I think it’s almost ready.”

She bites at her lip. “You want to do it?”

He blinks at her.

“Lay the track for the demo,” she says. “You co-wrote it, and I just thought…”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

She flashes a small smile. “Okay,” she says. “Come over, and we can knock it out in an afternoon.”

  
She forgets that he hasn’t seen her new place. 

He doesn’t talk much when they cross through and she finds herself giving the usual tour speech to fill the silence. She’s tried to build a home that feels as warm and welcoming as she always felt whenever she came home as a kid, and it isn’t quite perfect, but it’s close enough for it to count. He takes off his shoes at the entryway and lingers in the foyer, eyes taking in the photos hanging on the wall and the interior designer-approved decorations.

He lingers on the awards facing out towards the doorway, his finger ghosting over the nameplates as he scans them. He looks at her just once, but she can feel the weight of his look, like there’s a thousand things he wants to say, though he doesn’t bring himself to say any of them. She wonders if there’s parts of her house that surprise him somehow, if there are parts of her life that he’s never considered or if her taste has skewed one way or another different than what he’s expected.

Her gold and platinum records are further down the hall towards the office and the studio, hidden away from the entertaining areas because it reminds her of the first time she walked into Carrie’s house and found herself surprised by all of her dad’s accomplishments at once. It’s meant to make people feel small, whether accidentally or on purpose, and she’s never wanted her house to feel that way.

“It’s nice,” he says.

She coughs a laugh. “Thanks,” she says. “You want something to drink?”

He shakes his head, and they lead into the last part of the tour. They pass through the kitchen, and she waves vaguely out the windows towards the rear yard. There’s a granite kitchen island that she never uses, and large white windows that bleed light into the room.

“You must love this,” he says.

She smiles softly. “Yeah,” she says. “The mornings when I’m up in time to catch the sunrise, it’s beautiful.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something further, but shuts it again. 

She nods. “The studio’s this way. Don’t expect a Luke Patterson set-up, all right?”

He laughs. “What is a Luke Patterson set-up?”

“I don’t have any tapes, 8-tracks, huge mixing tables or anything. It’s a booth to record, and I’ve got a good mix of instruments. That’s it.”

“Hey, I don’t judge,” he says. “It’s your house.”

She bites back a smile. “I’m glad you finally got to see it.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

  
She’s always thought about what it would be like to live with him. Not like they did, in their fashion, when they were on tour or when they were writing, holed up together with her living out of bags of all kinds, but really living together and sharing space. The studio days are so far behind them now that she has trouble remembering anything specific about them at all. What she remembers are the fights and the complaints, the way Alex would call him out for little beard hairs in the kitchen sink and the lack of a cleaning schedule, how she’d find boys’ socks everywhere—everywhere—no matter how many times she told them she wasn’t picking up after them or yelled about how disgusting it was.

The only thing he’s ever really cared about is his guitars, his instruments, and his music. Everything else, she knows he’d cave on. But there are lessons that she’s learned from living around him all of those years. The way that he stumbles blindly for the first hour of the morning, operating on autopilot until he has breakfast in him. How he has no eye for where things are kept or the overflowing trash, but he’ll notice when any of the furniture is nudged out of place. How he likes to organize the pantry, and no other cabinet in the house.

She would have liked to learn more about how he keeps and understands the world, and she knows there would have been things he would have discovered and found frustrating about her world too. How her make-up colonizes the entire bathroom counter maybe, or how her shower routine doesn’t really seem to be a routine as much as it is whatever she feels up to in the moment. How she likes to take her coffee an hour before her breakfast, usually in a mug that she grips between her hands while she lets it cool down to being cold. How she isn’t a morning person except for the days that she is, and always forgets her slippers in one room or another until she has to find them again.

They’ve always been adjacent to one another’s routines, but they’ve never been part of them, and part of her wonders if it would have been easier or harder to fold each other into their lives by then. They never lived together, she thinks, because it would have meant that things were getting serious, and neither of them were ready to think about what serious meant or how serious they were willing to go. Not then. They preferred to hover in the clouds, to let the other person steer and tell them where they were heading, and to pretend that they didn’t need to make any choices or figure anything out. They wanted a relationship that could coast, that they could pull back whenever they needed to for a breather or a moment, so they could always decide how it went. 

(And what they say about best-laid plans turns out to be true.)

She likes to lose herself in the fantasy of their potential future, the one that dissolved somewhere after Tokyo. She likes to think that they would have figured out a way to make space for one another down to their quirks, that they would have learned how to include the shape of someone else into the order of their lives. He knows how she takes her coffee, and she knows when to push him into bed to sleep to keep him from overworking himself into a coma for the following week. 

She likes to think that they would have known what would have been best for each other, even if they didn’t want to hear the advice. 

She likes to think that they would have done each other good. That their horizons would have expanded, their eyes opened. That they could have built a life that wasn’t quite what either of them were expecting, but that turned out to be so much more than what they imagined before they did it. The world blown a little bit wider, the possibilities stretching a little further.

  
Her studio’s not much more than a recording booth, but he bites his tongue and doesn’t mention it. It’s barely big enough to let the two of them inside at once, and he finds himself breathing in the scent of her perfume and her shampoo as they crowd around the lone mic. He knows that this kind of build isn’t for much more than laying down demo tracks, for playing back what she might have written for herself earlier in the day. It’s not the kind of booth that’s built for more than one person.

They end up having to split the pair of headphones when she plays the track through into the booth, and they spend the first few minutes realizing that they’re singing different parts, that they break the phrasing in different spots. It takes another few minutes for them to decide on a way to do it, on how they want the vocals to layer, on what they want it to sound like.

Duets are a tricky thing to manage, and they’ve never really tried it. He’s never wanted to end up one of those couples who does a song just because that’s what they do for their job, and it’s hard to find a duet that doesn’t end up being cringe in one way or another ten years down the line. Some things are better alone or in a group; get it down to two voices, and people start reading too much into it.

But she’s right about this song. The way that she’s written it, spare and empty of nearly everything, the voices are nothing more than echoes through the track, and he understands why she wants to isolate the two vocals. It’s like hearing the wind roll through the woods, or the murmur of ghosts at the edge of a wood. There’s something haunting about it, and quiet in its sadness. It fits.

She squeezes in tight beside him, her shoulder against his, and they hold their breath as they try to hear the sound of the backing track over their own breathing. When she sings, he rocks back on his heels and watches her at the height of her craft, her voice mournful and low. For someone who doesn’t like to write sad songs, he thinks, there’s never been anyone who’s been better at it.

She gets the ache just right, her voice cutting mournful and wailing, heavy so that his heart aches just listening to her. 

He aims for something even rougher and sings below his range, his voice coming gravelly and low in a way that makes him sound like he’s ten years older. It’s a little too heavy on the rasp, but he leans into it and punches through more vibrato than he usually sings with until it sounds like his pain is buzzing along with the guitar.

It’s a ghost story, he thinks. All of this love that the song carries.

  
It takes them three or four times to get it right, the first couple just them experimenting in the booth, the later ones separate takes so they can isolate what works from what doesn’t. He’s always surprised by how well their voices blend, by the effortlessness of it even after years of silence and lack of practice. But she knows what she’s doing and he knows what it should sound like and when their voices glide right over the harmony, it touches him somewhere deep down and gives him an ache. The kind that comes when you feel something come whole again, no matter how briefly.

It’s still rough, no matter the light tweaks that Julie makes to it from her laptop, fussing with when this instrument or this part should come in or take lead. She’s never liked to get into the weeds of it the way that he has, but he appreciates how much she tries, hacking through the rough stuff to build out something that sounds good enough.

They listen to it a few more times at her kitchen table, watching the late afternoon sun pour through the high tops of the trees. He would have figured her house for a sanctuary, but he’s still surprised by how private parts of it are—the way the trees stretch high to block part of her yard, the high fencing at the edges, the spaciousness of the house and its dark pockets, even with its many windows. It feels lived-in and comfortable and he can read her in the styling, even if there isn’t a speck of dust to be found anywhere.

She makes them both coffee from an old drip machine, her cheeks flushing lightly as she gestures towards the expensive espresso maker that she’s never quite learned the trick of using. “It was a present,” she explains, “from Flynn after she finished grad school.”

He thinks about asking her if she regrets missing out on those hallmarks—the big milestones of life that everyone swears by, college, grad school, first apartments, first everythings. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything, but he’d be lying if he didn’t say that he didn’t think about it sometimes. What it would have been like if they had met somewhere normal, if they had carved out normal lives and he had been the kid working the counter at some coffee shop maybe and she had been an overworked music student, if their paths would have crossed some other way.

The coffee is Bustelo, stronger and darker than he’s used to, but she’s got condensed milk and he tries to lighten it enough to make it drinkable.

“I forget how strong you take your coffee,” he says, wincing at a sip.

She laughs. 

“I think you should do it solo,” he says. “The song.”

She leans forward onto her arms, resting her chin on top of them. “You think so?”

“It’s stronger that way,” he says. “Single point-of-view, strong perspective. You don’t want to muddle it by adding in his side.”

“It’ll add depth,” she says. “If you can hear both sides and pick out what the story really is.”

“The story’s whatever you decide to make it,” he says.

She hums and lifts her head, taking a long sip of her coffee.

“I think it works better if it’s just her,” he says. “It’s more reflective that way.”

She hums again.

“You think that’s bullshit?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

He laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I mean. You think it’s bullshit.”

She rolls her eyes. “Drink your coffee, man.”

He takes another thoughtful sip and glances out the kitchen window towards the yard. “What kinds of trees are those?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Flynn helped me pick them out. My dad, too. I just went for whatever looked nice.”

“Orange trees?”

She shakes her head. “Fruit trees are too much work.”

“There’s a lot of light in here,” he says. “You must love it.”

A smile ghosts across her face. “Yeah,” she says. “Whenever I’m home, I’m reminded of how much I like being here.”

“Must be hard to be away so long,” he says.

She shrugs. “Comes with the territory, right?”

He makes a noncommittal noise, and takes another sip. “It doesn’t have to.”

“Maybe.”

He glances back down at his coffee, and clears his throat. “I’m glad you got the chance to build the kitchen you always wanted,” he says. “You write a lot in here?”

She shakes her head. “Not really,” she says, rising to stand. She empties the rest of her coffee cup in the sink and sets it in. “You finished?”

He drains the rest of his cup and hands it over. “I didn’t mean to push,” he says. “It’s none of my business.”

She shakes her head and flashes him a brief smile. A little flat and forced, but he’ll take it. “You want to see the rest of the house?”

“The grand tour?” he says. “Sure.”

  
He’s quiet during the tour. She doesn’t know what she expected—jokes to break the silence, maybe, or something to make it feel like they’re just friends doing friendly things, that there isn’t a weight of everything they never did pressing in on them from all sides. She tries to fill the silence with stories of whys and whens, of where things came from, but she can’t quite remember either.

They pass down the hallway and upstairs, padding up into the next section of the house. She tells him about her plans for her family, about how she thought they’d want rooms of their own to stay when they visited, how she thought about being the kind of person who would always keep a home base for her friends. “But you know,” she says, offhandedly, “People get married, they have their own houses, and Dad and Carlos never really liked leaving home that much anyway.”

He hums quietly, but doesn’t say anything, and she wonders if he’s thinking about Alex and Willie, about the kinds of places you make when there’s someone else to make it with. She wonders if he’s remembering how she used to be, how important it was to return to some kind of home base to charge, or if he’s thinking about how impossible it was for him to stay anywhere without wanting to charge right out into another adventure right away. Maybe he’s grown more used to stillness. Maybe he’s started to settle down in his own ways like the way timbers in an old house rest into place.

She’d be lying if she said that she hasn’t changed either, if there aren’t days or nights when the space of the house gets tiresome, when she hates sitting alone by the side of the pool watching the sun pass through the arms of the trees. It’s those days when she misses her mom more than she can mention, when she feels the long arm of something stretch through to her chest and remind her that there was once a time when she wanted something more.

But there’s never the right kind of language for it, and she’s never tried to talk about it. All she knows is that the house makes her feel settled and shifting at the same time, that there’s something about it that’s just about right but not quite.

She turns restless and gestures left and right. There are guest rooms, the beds turned down for anybody who might come and stay, and a small office at the end of the hall that she’s rarely used.

He scoffs. “When have you ever liked to be in an office?”

She shrugs. “You never know,” she says. “Might be useful.”

There’s a little library and music room across from the office, and it’s the coziest room they’ve passed so far. There’s a large upright piano in the middle of the room—nothing fancy, no Steinway like the flashy one in the living room downstairs—and a couple of guitars. He walks into the room and glances at the gold records hanging on the wall, the built-ins covered with awards of the last few years.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

“I needed a place to put them all,” she says. “Besides just…”

“Stacking them in the living room like some kind of fort?” he says.

“Half of these don’t mean anything,” she says. “What the fuck is a _Teen Choice Award_ worth?”

He runs his hands over the fingerboards of the guitars and lifts one of the electrics up by the neck. “I bought you this one,” he says, slinging the strap over his neck. 

She watches him carefully, but he has his eyes fixed to the guitar, fussing with the tuning, plucking at the strings. “Yeah,” she says.

“Was it in Nashville?”

She laughs. “When you went on a shopping spree at the Martin factory?” she says. “No, you didn’t buy me that in Nashville. Are you kidding? You barely remembered that I was with you when you were there.”

He grins.

“That’s the one from Covent Garden,” she says. “That vintage place.”

“Oh, my god,” he says, “That’s right.”

“You spent like half an hour talking to that guy about the Gibson.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says. “You autographed that guitar for them.”

“ _You_ autographed that guitar,” she says.

“ _Please_ ,” he says. “That guy was hitting on you the whole time.”

“When he could get a word in edgewise, you mean?”

“I was distracting him,” he says.

“By nerding out about guitars,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“He wasn’t hitting on me.”

“You never know when anyone’s hitting on you,” he says. “But trust me.”

She laughs. “Whatever you say.”

“You play this a lot?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes.”

He starts playing through one of the opening riffs to one of their old songs. _Anchorage_ , she remembers, the one they wrote in between hours of a fight neither of them admitted they were having. It was north Italy somewhere, she thinks, and a riff that she was goofing around on that they ended up keeping. “You should write more guitar,” he says. “You’re good at it.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans. “High praise.”

He shrugs the strap off and replaces the guitar on the stand. “I mean it,” he says. “You used to think that you could only write piano, but you’re better on guitar than eighty percent of the other fuckers writing.”

“Thanks.”

He waves his arm towards the rear of the room. “Look at all of this shit,” he says. “You’re really talented. Don’t act like it’s by accident.”

She colors. “I know.”

“I know,” he says. “I just like to remind you.”

And then there’s just her bedroom. She cracks the door wide, but doesn’t go inside, gesturing vaguely inside. There’s a bed in the center of the room, thick curtains on the walls, paintings and photos of friends on the walls and on nightstands. Her clothes are still scattered around the room from the last few days, the bed unmade, but he takes a cautious step into the doorway, wavering between stepping in and staying out.

He tips his head, and she sags back against the doorframe, glancing at his face. 

“What do you think?” she says.

“It’s a nice house,” he says, mirroring her as he leans against the opposite side of the doorframe. “It’s…very you.”

“What does that mean?” she says. “Messy?”

He chuckles, and a shiver runs against the back of her neck. “It’s cozy,” he says. “You can tell you like…being here.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I can’t believe you’ve never been here.”

“To the apartment,” he says. “And to the old house a couple of times, I think. Or, not the old one, the—”

“The one by the beach?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe,” he says. “You haven’t come out to Utah either.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe.” On an exhale, he adds, “I’ve been thinking about moving back.”

She blinks a few times, processing what he says. “Yeah?” she says, daring a glance up at his face.

“I missed writing with the boys,” he says. “And it’s more convenient with Mike and with…I don’t know, with everything.”

“It wasn’t convenient before?”

“Not…with other things,” he says. “No.”

She touches her fingers to his arm lightly. “Come on,” she says. “You hungry?”

  
She lets him put a record on, gratified by his reaction to her enormous collection, and puts water up for pasta. There’s not much else in the house, but she can throw something together with red sauce and that feels good enough for the kind of day they’ve been having. She opens a bottle of white wine, and they hover in her kitchen, watching the sun begin to set through the trees, the sky turning lavender and pink, streaking rich with color.

The wine pinks her cheeks and warms her up, and she feels the awkwardness start to crack a little. They talk about Reggie and Alex and about nothing at all, about the weather and social media and the news, about the memes that they’ve seen and who the Academy snubbed the last time they did their award nominations. They get through the first glasses when the water boils, and then he’s beside her when she’s tossing in the pasta, his elbow bumping against the side of her ribs.

She sways on her toes, back and forth, looking up at him with a wry twist of the mouth. “You’re being helpful today,” she says.

“Second meal of the day,” he says. “I thought maybe I’d help out.”

Her mouth leans against the lip of her glass as she fights another smile. “Is that what you’re doing?”

He grins, and they listen to Leonard Cohen warble distantly from the living room. He drains the rest of his glass and sets the empty glass down on the counter, sliding an arm around her waist to turn them around.

“What are you doing?” she laughs.

“ _La la la la_ ,” he sings along with the record. “Put your wine down. Let’s dance.”

“I have to stir the pasta,” she says, setting her wine down on the counter.

“It’s spaghetti,” he says. “You can’t fuck up spaghetti.”

“I’ve watched you,” she says. “So yes you can.”

His fingers tighten around her waist, pulling her closer as they twirl in small circles around the kitchen island. “ _Oh, let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone_ ,” he sings along with the record. 

She sings the harmony softly underneath him, looping her arms behind his neck. Tilting her head back, she watches him as he shifts closer, his hands sliding down to settle on her hips. “ _Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon_ ,” she sings.

His mouth grazes the shell of her ear, nuzzling down the side of her neck.

Her breath catches in her throat and she holds him in place as he settles his head against the crook of her shoulder.

She can feel the unsteadiness of his breathing as he murmurs along with the record. Her fingers run through his hair, settling warm against the back of his neck.

When he pulls back to look at her, her hand slides to tuck against the side of his neck, her fingers angling his head up towards hers.

She takes a breath, and meets his eyes, holding his gaze for a moment. 

“Julie,” he whispers.

“Julie!” 

She spins on her heel towards the noise, dropping her hand. “Shit,” she mutters.

“What is it?” he says, brushing his hand against her back.

Flynn marches into the kitchen, grocery bags in hand, hoisting them high. “Julie!” she calls, again. The smile on her face wilts as she rounds the corner. “And guest!”

Luke lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Flynn.”

“Luke!” Flynn chirps, smile sharp. “I didn’t know you were going to be here. For our _bff dinner_.”

“I’m so sorry,” Julie says. “I forgot…”

The pot on the stove boils over loudly, and Luke reaches to switch the gas off.

  
He’s never chewed so thoroughly before in his life.

Julie does most of the talking, chatting about the song they’ve been working on, what it’s been like coming back from tour, what she plans to do later on in the year. She talks mostly to fill the silence, a little breathless with nerves, but he’s not looking anywhere beside his plate and Flynn’s not looking anywhere except him.

He’s still sipping through his first glass of wine, the two of them making their way past their third, and Flynn still hasn’t spoken to him directly yet.

“Are you guys writing together a lot now?” Flynn says. “Because this seems new.”

Julie clatters her fork against the side of her plate. “Is this how it’s going to be all night?”

Flynn narrows her eyes. “I don’t know, Julie. I thought this wasn't serious,” she says. “You tell me.”

“Look,” he says, “I know this isn’t what you were expecting, but I didn’t know that I would be interrupting something. I was just in town…”

“Are you just in town?” Flynn snaps. “What a coincidence.”

“I’m here to meet with my manager,” he says, “And to look around at some houses. And we had lunch, and it became a writing session.”

Flynn blinks at him. “And you’re telling me that’s all?”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Flynn,” Julie says. “Relax, would you? Take a breather.”

“I mean,” Flynn continues, “What’s going on with you two?”

“Flynn,” Julie says, more firmly. “It’s not—this has nothing to do with you.”

“You haven’t lied to me since we were in high school,” Flynn says. “We haven’t kept any secrets from each other in years. Until what? Until he’s back in your life?”

“She doesn’t owe you an explanation,” Luke says.

Flynn narrows her eyes at him, her jaw tensing as she bites back a remark. “ _You_ don’t get to tell me _shit_ ,” she says, after a measured pause.

“Okay,” he says.

“Great,” she says, forcing a smile. “I’m going for some air.”

Julie shoots him a look as they watch Flynn pass through the sliding door out into the yard. “You just have to give her some time,” she says. “There’s a lot we haven’t had the chance to talk about.”

He nods. Through the glass, he can see the spark of a lighter and then the slow curl of smoke rising up into the air. “I get it,” he says, rising in his seat. “Just let me talk to her.”

Julie snags his arm. “You think that’s a good idea?”

He gives a quiet laugh. “I don’t think it can make anything worse,” he says. “Don’t you think?”

  
He follows her outside where she’s sitting against one of the wooden deck chairs, rolling her neck and smoking her way through a cigarette.

She grunts with irritation when she hears him coming. “I hope you don’t think you can sweet talk me into whatever the same way you did with her,” she says.

He takes a seat against an adjacent deck chair, leaning his elbows against his knees. “I deserve that,” he says.

She takes a long drag and exhales smoke through her nostrils. It adds to her menace somehow, like she’s waiting for the right circumstances to let everything loose and finally punch him in the face. “Don’t tell her I’m smoking,” she says. “I quit.”

“Sorry to push you into backsliding,” he says.

She plucks the cigarette from her mouth with a large wave of the arm and shakes her head. “Julie doesn’t keep things from me,” she says. “And I just don’t know what’s going on with you.”

“I know you don’t trust me,” he says.

“Did you ever give me a reason to?” she says.

He shrugs in agreement and stretches a hand out. “Bum one?”

She scoffs, but hands it over. “You’re unbelievable,” she says.

“That’s what they tell me,” he says. It’s been a long while since his last cigarette, and it tastes too sweet on the back of his tongue. The memory of it is like a whole other lifetime. “I know you think that I’m a piece of shit.”

“To start,” she says. “You going to tell me things are different now? That you’ve seen the error of your ways and you’ve turned it all around?”

“I know I’m not going to convince you of anything,” he says, passing the cigarette back.

“So why are you out here?”

“Because it’s not her fault,” he says. “We don’t know what we’re doing either, and I don’t think she wanted to tell you before she knows.”

“She doesn't lie to me,” Flynn says. “Ever. Except for this. Except for the shit between the two of you.”

He wants to tell her that there are things that he’s learned since the last time they’ve run into each other, that there are things that he’s grown out of and other things that he’s finally changed. He wants to tell her that he has a lot of regrets about how it all ended up, about the choices that he made, but he’s changed enough to know that it’s the last thing that she wants to hear. He’s old enough now to hear how much all of it sounds like excuses.

But that’s what he was good at making back then—music, and excuses.

He glances up at her. “I know that she’s too good for me.”

Flynn doesn’t say anything.

“I know you’re looking out for her,” he says. “And I know that I used to be the bad guy, but—”

“But what?” Flynn says.

“I’m trying,” he says. “Believe me if you want to, or don’t, but I’m trying to do better. For whatever that’s worth.”

She nods and finishes off the cigarette, stubbing it out against the pavement. 

“She trusts you, you know,” he says. “More than anyone else in the world.”

He starts to head back towards the kitchen where Julie waits, leaning up onto her toes to watch them through the kitchen window. Her eyes are wide as she gnaws on the edge of her nail, mouth pursed as she studies them.

“Luke,” Flynn calls.

He pauses and turns back towards her.

“If you do anything to hurt her this time, it’s on sight,” she says.

His laugh is quiet. “I know,” he says. “And I know you mean it.”

“Good, then,” she says.

Hurting her is the last thing he’d ever want to do, but they’ve already been through it a few times, and he knows exactly how little that means coming from him. He knows exactly how little interest she has in hearing him make promises that he’s broken before.

But they’re older and wiser now, and he doesn’t promise things that he has no interest in trying to deliver.

“Flynn,” he says.

“What?”

“I love her, you know,” he says. “More than anything.”

She looks up at him, studying his face. “Yeah,” she says, quietly. “So do I.”

They’re older and wiser now, and he knows how to recognize the moment when things cross into being just too little and too late, when he starts fighting for something because he knows he can’t save it instead of fighting to save what he can.

He knows when the ship starts sinking.

And if he could convince her, maybe he’d try to push the point a little harder, try to get her to see things from his side. But they’re older and wiser, and he knows exactly the limits of how much slack she’s willing to cut him.

So he lets it go, and walks back into the kitchen.

  
He stays after dinner to help Julie clean up. Not that there’s much left of dinner to handle. But he clears the plates from the table and into the sink, rolling up his sleeves to start the dishes when she shifts to stand beside him, draining the last of the open bottle of wine into her glass.

“You okay?” he says.

She takes another gulp of wine and winces. “I should be asking you that,” she says. “Look, Flynn and I just…have a lot to talk about.”

“You don’t have to make explanations,” he says. “I deserve it.”

He runs the water warm and wets the dish sponge, squeezing soap onto it and starting to lather. She watches his hands as he works through the plates, scrubbing the edges with an attention he hasn’t paid to much of anything lately.

“That wasn’t how I wanted to tell her about us,” she says.

He keeps staring down at the dish he’s tending to. “What about us?” he says.

She freezes, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she considers. “I don’t know,” she says. “I haven’t, uh, thought about it.”

He turns towards her, dripping dishwater off of the tips of his fingers. “You haven’t _thought_ about it?”

She drains more of the wine in her glass. “It’s a lot to think about,” she says, quietly. “Everything that happened before, and I didn’t want to…put all this pressure on it.”

“Julie,” he says. The water runs over the dish and he scrubs the lather off, setting it in the dish rack to dry. “It’s been months since I told you.”

“Yeah.”

“At some point, you’re going to have to decide something about us. About whether you want there to be an us. About what I’m doing here.”

She raises her hands and shakes her head. “Don’t push me!”

“I’m not pushing you,” he says. “I’m not. But you can’t keep me on the line hoping for something to change if you don’t plan to ever do anything about it.”

“Luke.”

“I know we said no promises. I _know_ that. And I know you’re scared. But we’re trying now,” he says. “I mean, I’m trying. And that has to make a difference somewhere. There’s—I didn’t leave what happened last time the same person I was before it happened, you know?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

And then there’s just the clink of ceramic dishes. “It’s—it can be whatever you want it to be. But I’m not—I don’t have doubts about how I feel about you, Julie. I don’t have any doubts about us, if there’s an us. But you can't just keep me hanging for...”

She sets her hand on his shoulder. “Leave the dishes,” she says. “Come sit outside.”

  
It’s not as quiet here as it is in his yard in Utah, but the stars seem to come out just the same. It isn’t as bright, he thinks, which probably has to do with light pollution and how close they are to the city, but it’s nice that he can see them at all through all of the noise. She grabs her wine glass and follows him out onto the patio, lit only by what manages to bleed out from the kitchen.

It’s dark enough that he takes his time tiptoeing around the pool, but she moves with ease, settling into one of the wooden deck chairs with a quiet sigh.

“You come out here a lot?” he says.

A small smile ghosts her face. “I like to look at the stars,” she says. “It reminds me that we’re not alone.”

It’s something she used to do with her mom, he figures. It’s the kind of tradition that isn’t really a tradition, the little habits that start up in childhood that she’s never been okay with abandoning. It’s one of the things he’s always loved about her, he thinks. How she carries a little bit of everyone she loves with her through the rest of her life.

He takes a seat across from her on a nearby deck chair, and reaches for her arm. His fingers trace a line along the edge of her forearm and she shifts closer, shivering in her thin dress.

“You didn’t tell me you were buying a house,” she says.

He exhales. “Looking,” he says. “Looking for a house.”

She takes a thoughtful sip of her wine with a quiet sigh. Shifting back in her seat, she stretches her legs out in front of her, glancing up at the sky. “Any particular reason?”

He scoffs. “Julie.”

“Did she threaten you?” she says.

“She always threatens me,” he laughs. “She can be real scary when she tries to be.”

She nods. “Yeah, she can,” she says.

“So,” he says, nudging her foot with his.

“It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about what you said,” she says.

He hums softly in acknowledgment.

“Every time I try to think about it,” she says, “I get hung up on all of the other stuff. On what happened.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t blame you.”

“Does it bother you?” she says, “That I haven’t said it back?”

He shrugs. If he owes her anything, he owes her time. Time to pick apart what she wants from the mess that he left her with, time to figure out how she wants to move forward. They’ve always gone ahead at a thousand miles an hour in everything and, for the first time in his life, he feels like he owes it to her to downshift into a speed that she prefers, to leave them enough breathing room to give them a chance at swimming past the undertow of their past.

He wants to tell her that he isn’t sure of much these days, not the choices that he’s made, not the life that he’s carved for himself, not the things that he’s done. He got into music because he wanted to build something that outlasted him, that stood for something larger than the shadow his own life could cast, but he isn’t sure any of it’s been worth it. 

The only thing he’s ever been sure about is her.

“It’s not like—I just loved you so much back then,” she says.

“You want to make sure,” he says. “I get it.”

“No,” she says. “I’m—it’s scary.”

“You’re scared?”

She gives a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, Luke,” she says. 

He stands and opens his arms wide. “Come here,” he says.

She rolls her eyes.

“Shut up,” he says, “And come here.”

When she walks into his arms, he squeezes his arms tight around her and waits for that moment when she gives in. When she sighs quietly in his arms and finally starts to relax. 

“You don’t have to carry everything all of the time, you know,” he says. “Put some of it down.”

She exhales and presses her cheek against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“What are you afraid of?” he says, swaying lightly as he grips her.

“If I say it, I can’t take it back,” she says.

“I know,” he says. “I already said it.”

“If I can’t take it back, then it’s real,” she says.

“What is?”

She pulls back and looks at him, her eyes bright and restless. “All of this,” she says, ducking her head and tucking it back against his shoulder.

“It’s real for me,” he whispers, cupping her face in his hands. “No matter what you decide.”

“I don’t want this to be a mistake,” she says.

“You can’t go back, Jules. You can only go forward.”

She nudges her chin against his chest, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Then stay,” she whispers, after a moment. 

“You sure?” he says.

“No,” she replies, with a soft laugh. “But I’m asking.”

  
He’s quiet when they creep back into the house and when she tells him to abandon the dishes and to head upstairs. It’s a different kind of quiet than the nights they’ve been used to so far, not ripe with desire and impatience but calm and undemanding. She’s forgotten this part of being with someone—the way they can quietly embed themselves into your life and your space, how every part of her life feels like it touches his in some way too.

She’s more terrified than she can admit, her heart hammering hard in her chest like the first time she ever crawled in the backseat with a boy. But it’s too much to have to think about what it all means, too much to try to label the role that he holds in her life, too much to think about how much she’s come to rely on him again.

He’s always been able to understand her even when she’s had trouble understanding herself. He’s always been able to translate everything she’s been thinking into something that she could tackle and reshape, some kind of knot that she could untangle. But she isn’t sure if she’s ready for this to be untangled yet. She isn’t sure if she can stand to look at what it looks like after, her heart raw and exposed, aching too much to be anything other than soft, desperate, wanting.

She’s never wanted to be the kind of girl led by her heart, but he’s the one weakness that’s always led her here. And after everything, she never wanted to be that lost little girl again, the one that was so hurt by grief that she couldn’t do anything but sit there and reflect on everything that went wrong. But he makes her want to try again.

He makes her want to think about trying again.

Upstairs, he watches her get undressed and strips down to his boxers and t-shirt. She offers him one of the many toothbrushes that she stashes in the spare bathrooms around the house, and he cracks a weak joke about the revolving door of people coming through. 

She wipes off her make-up on a cotton pad, and blinks up at him with one eye open. “There’s only ever been you,” she says, and he freezes halfway through tearing open the toothbrush.

They lose themselves in the simple routines—she brushes out her hair, they brush their teeth, and then they’re climbing into bed together, checking their alarms and their schedules for the next morning. His arms are solid as they wrap around her, and she sighs and curls up against his heat, stretching her feet to touch between his. 

In the dark, she doesn’t have to hide anything. In the dark, she can close her eyes and smile all she wants and stretch back into his touch and make all of the wishes that she wants.

He kisses the side of her neck and pulls her in close, and she hums in approval. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” she whispers.

He murmurs something into her hair that she doesn’t quite catch.

  
In the morning, she wakes up alone, the stack of his clothes on the ottoman missing. Scrubbing a hand through her hair, she listens for the noise of the shower or for any other sound on the landing, but the rest of the house is quiet.

“Luke?” she tries.

No answer.

Her chest tips and slides right into her stomach, but she swallows the acid rising in her throat and slips back into the steadiness of her morning routine. She makes her bed and brushes her teeth, takes a quick shower and changes into her thin robe, grabs her phone and slips downstairs. 

There’s a pot of coffee still brewing, the smell of it strong and warm, and she waits for it to finish before she pours herself a cup.

When the door opens, she turns towards the noise and takes a steadying sip of coffee, hot enough to scald.

“Sorry,” Luke mumbles around a mouthful of paper bag. He shrugs out of his jacket and pulls the brown paper bag from his mouth to rummage inside it. Napkins and plastic utensils get tossed onto the kitchen table, followed by steaming foil-wrapped blocks. “I thought that was going to take a lot less time than it ended up being.”

She leaves her coffee on the counter and wraps her arms around him, pressing a hot kiss against his mouth. 

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Leave a note next time, jackass.”

He holds out a foil block to her in apology. “I know how you get before you eat,” he says, kissing her softly. “Jackass.”

She grins and kisses him again. His kiss is still sweet with toothpaste, cool and minty against her mouth.

“Miss me?” he says.

She can’t find the right words to say how she feels, so she says, “You wish.”

  
The last show he plays isn’t a show he expects to be his last show.

It’s one of his favorite clubs in Vegas, the kind that’s standing room only and a mixed crowd full of the usual drinkers, long-time fans, and couples searching for a good evening out. They’re lukewarm tonight, edging lightly into hostile, but the talk is fairly low and the crowd sway and shout through his opening songs.

He used to love cutting his teeth on new material in front of crowds like this, confident and loud about what they like and what they don’t and unafraid to let you know it. It’s been too many years since he’s gotten to play in front of a crowd that he has to seduce in some way, having to find the right song that unlocks the audience of skeptics, hit the right key change and feel the momentum of the room tip slightly in his direction. It’s like a game of pinball, feeling the flow and bumping the machine at just the right time. 

The guitar parts are pristine, the harmonies passable, and Ned, his drummer, does some spectacular fills on breakout solos that he wishes he could have gotten on the track. But the magic of live music is in its fickleness—how a good solo run one night can be completely clumsy and dead-handed the next, how the same songs can sound different stretched over an entire run, the little changes that have to be made because of one reason or another. Someone’s hand gets fucked up, and the arrangements get changed around; someone’s voice cracks, and the key changes; he’s too tired to go through the full solo and cuts it short, plays his own song like a cover.

He doesn’t count on the show being his last, but it hits him somewhere between the second and third sections of the set—the glow that comes from knowing he’s won someone over, and knowing that it’s not something he’ll ever feel again. There’ll never be an audience with this kind of gristle for him again. And maybe he’s spent the last few years trying to convince himself that he could find them, that he could start from the bottom and chase something new, but he’s done what he set out to do—he’s made his music and made his name, and touched millions of people in the process, and maybe he can finally let that be good enough.

Maybe it wasn’t ever about conquering anything at all, but about finding his footing and his place in the world. Finding himself.

The crowd hoots and whistles as he sets up for the next song, and he finds himself chatting to them more than usual. “It’s been a long time since I’ve played at a joint like this,” he murmurs into the mic, and the old drunks at the bar flip him off.

“ _Freebird_!” someone shouts from the crowd.

He laughs, shaking his head. 

“ _Heart on the Run_!” someone else shouts from the crowd, and he feels an electric spark coil its way down his spine. He’d know that voice anywhere.

He stands and sets a pick between his teeth. “Since someone is asking so nicely,” he murmurs, turning back towards the band. “Heart on the Run.”

They’ve never really practiced these songs, but he glances between the scared and tense faces of his band and the bored expressions of the crowd. He nods along with the count, and jumps right into the intro of the song.

He trusts his guys, and sometimes that’s the only thing that you have.

Like falling into the crowd and waiting for the hands to catch you. Sometimes that’s all you have.

  
She hasn’t watched him perform in years. Not like this, not in front of a thin crowd, not with the warmth of his personality burning through the stage chatter as he transitions between songs. It’s been a long time since she’s played a gig like this that she forgets what can be great about it—the lack of distance between him and the audience, the easy way the rapport can build, the way the show becomes a conversation more than anything else.

And she’s never seen him perform alone.

The bourbon soda warms her from the inside out, and she studies the way his hair has gone damp under the heat of the stage lights, the way his shirt starts to cling to his body.

His voice slices through the thin chatter of the evening bar crowd with its mournful rumble. “Creeping to a crawl, headed west into the night,” he sings.

When he’s playing without them, he keeps a tighter tempo, his hand keeping a steady driving beat against the strings of the guitar. The guys that he has playing with him know him well enough to keep to pace, and they do a good job of hovering in the background, the noise filling in without being obtrusive.

She used to think that he taught her a lot about performing on stage, about how to make herself take up more space than she felt she could, about how to project everything that she was feeling out to the back rows. But watching him now, the way he hunches his shoulders forward from his perch on the stool, at how he glances around the room and builds that mood of ache that pulses through the room, she thinks maybe she taught him something too about working the room.

His eyes settle on her as he leads into the chorus, and his mouth stretches wide into a smile that doesn’t fit the mood of the song.

She can’t help but laugh at how he looks, and he whiffs a chord as he skips through towards the bridge. She shakes her head, but it’s impossible to miss the joy that radiates off of him when he plays. His teeth click against the edge of the mic as he leans in close, going breathy and low in a way that he hates to sing.

The people beside her sway back and forth on their feet in a kind of dance, and she rocks back on her heels to the beat. He clicks his tongue, strumming fast into the end of the song because he’s never liked to let a slow song just be slow, and the crowd nearest the stage starts jumping and screaming.

He rocks back and forth on stage, his body arcing towards hers in rhythm, and she grins, giddy with the feeling of the crowd, with the light hum of alcohol in her blood, with the joy of hearing how her words are echoing through the room.

She bounces on her toes along with the music.

This is them, she thinks. This is always what’s belonged to them—these rooms full of people and their off-key singing, the strum of his guitar and the steady tone of his voice, the songs that they’ve written and the way they make people feel.

She runs a hand through her hair and glances up at him, and the heat of his gaze is fixed on her. Unmoving, unchanging.

Heat runs up along her spine, and the crowd pushes in around her.

How silly to think they could ever leave this behind, she thinks. This thing they’ve built around the two of them, this world they’ve spun. 

He reaches for the mic stand and licks his lips as he crashes into the ending.

The crowd cheers, and she raises her plastic cup up to him in toast.

He laughs, spinning to bow at the band. “I’m Luke Patterson,” he says, “And this is the Chain Gang.”

The crowd gives another light round of applause.

“Tell your friends!” she shouts from the crowd.

He shrugs. “If you feel like it.”

He comes out to lead her backstage after the set, and she sits with the band in the green room as they start to break down the equipment on stage. The guys are new—David, Chester, and another Luke that everyone calls Looms—but she shakes their hands and takes selfies, signs stuff for their kids, and then settles into the seat beside him.

By the way they all look at her, she knows he doesn’t need to introduce her, but he does anyway. “This is Jules,” he says, waving his hand vaguely, “She’s a friend.”

She raises her hand in greeting.

“How was it?” he says.

“Crowd could have been better,” she says. “And you fucked up the transition into the bridge on Run.”

“You set me up for that,” he laughs, shaking the last bits of a water bottle into his hair. 

“Gross,” she winces.

Once the room clears out, they head back out on stage and help the techs pack up the kit. He handles all of his guitars himself, but she finds herself helping with the mic stands and the amps. It’s been a long time since she’s done anything like this, and she finds herself missing it—the feeling of working with her hands, of disconnecting everything before heading out for the night. Music used to be so much to touch, she thinks, and now it’s just another thing that she steps into and out of.

“If you fuck that up, Chester’s not going to shut up about it for weeks,” he warns.

She unplugs one of the cords. “Please,” she says. “Ye of little faith.”

He shrugs, and shuts and clasps another guitar case. “Fair warning,” he says.

Between the seven of them, it doesn’t take much to get everything back in the van, and then they’re just standing outside the building, watching Looms, David, and Chester smoke under the distant glow of the Strip lights.

“You hungry?” he says, glancing at her.

His eyes are bright in the dark, and she bites her lip. “No,” she says.

He coughs a laugh, and one of the boys in the distance hoots a loud, braying laugh in echo. “You want to get married?”

She slaps him hard in the arm.

“When in Vegas,” he says.

“No,” she says. “Anything else between food and marriage?”

“You think of something.”

  
They go for a drive.

For all that she’s traveled, Julie’s always been the kind of girl who appreciates the quiet spaces in the world—the lakes and mountains and woods where she can carve out a little peace. The highway at night shouldn’t be one, but he can see her relax the longer she drives, the lights of the city fading softly behind them into the black.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he says, listening to the wind whip through the cracked window.

“That’s why they call it a surprise,” she says. “Besides, I haven’t ever seen you play. Not without us, anyway.”

He nods. “Are you heading back in the morning?”

She hums. “I don’t know yet,” she says.

“Your schedule wide open?” he grins.

She leans into a shrug and pulls the car along a curved stretch of road. He watches her as she drives, her attention focused on the road ahead of them, her lip snagged between her teeth. She’s a comfortable driver, at-ease in a way that she rarely is elsewhere. Maybe it’s that she has a wheel between her hands and a direction to go, he thinks. Maybe it’s that she doesn’t have to know anything, really, except the general direction.

“What do you want to do?” he says.

She smiles and glances at him. “I don’t know,” she says. “What do you want to do?”

He leans back against the seat and closes his eyes, smelling the sweet night air come through the window. The air’s a little chill with night, and he relishes how crisp it is. “This,” he says. 

The world is quiet outside the car, and it’s just the noise of their wheels against the road. “Just driving?” she says.

“Yeah,” he says. 

“We’re going to have to stop sometime,” she says. “And you have to get back before the morning.”

“Yeah,” he says.

They pull over at a rest stop and get burgers and fries, eating them in the car as they watch the other cars rumble along the road. It makes him feel a little too young, he thinks, his feelings prickling right under his skin, too sharp to be ignored. She’s exhausted, but she’s trying to push through it, and he talks her into letting him take the drive back.

Halfway down the road, past their fourth exit, she falls asleep in the passenger seat, her hand still gripping the paper bag of fries.

She looks peaceful and ridiculous when she sleeps, her mouth falling open with a light snore, feet scraping against the floor.

He watches the road and he watches her sleep, and he doesn’t think about the future.

  
When she starts writing for her next album, he invites her out to Utah for a weekend.

She’s never been to his house, and she laughs when he gives her the tour. It’s a small house compared to what the rest of them have bought, but when he walks her into the outfitted studio, she gasps. “You would pull this shit,” she says. “No rooms for anyone else, but there’s like a professional studio in here.”

He grins, and shows her the pianos and keyboards that he has set up. “I never have anyone over,” he says. “But I’m always writing.”

She runs her fingers lightly over the console. “Is that supposed to make me feel special?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Does it?”

She makes herself at home easily, fishing mugs out of his cabinets, leaving half-full mugs of coffee and tea everywhere. His dogs love her, jumping over her ankles any time they get, and as he watches her strum through a song on a guitar, he figures he knows exactly how they feel. 

“What?” she says, as she strums through another chord. “Am I doing something wrong?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re going to tell me this is a song that somebody wrote in, like, 1910, right?”

“Copyright’s dead for songs that old,” he says.

“Not for _Happy Birthday_ ,” she says.

He laughs. “That is definitely not what happened.”

She cycles into a riff, halting and staccato. 

“What are you going for, anyway?” he says. “What’s the theme of the album?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just…writing and seeing what happens.”

He wrinkles his nose, reaching for one of his other acoustics and playing a line underneath hers. “That doesn’t sound like the Julie Molina I know.”

She adjusts her fingering and plays on. “Somebody sounds real sure of themselves,” she says.

“What does that mean?” he says.

She tucks her legs up underneath her on the seat, and strums along. “Maybe I’ve changed while you weren’t looking,” she sings.

And then they’re both quiet, strumming along with each other and listening for the changes.

  
He builds a fire for them in the yard that night, and they sit with cool beers and wait for the sun to set in silence. She looks beautiful in the firelight, all light and shadow carving out the angles and hollows of her face, and he finds he can’t stop looking at her. He wouldn’t want to anyway, he thinks, with a long pull of his drink. After everything, he’s earned the right to keep the memory of some of her beauty for himself.

They talk about his dogs for a while, about the writing they’ve gotten down for the day, and she smiles, climbing onto the seat beside him and leaning her weight against his. Her mouth curls into a pucker around the mouth of the bottle and he feels desire curl into a knot in his chest.

His mouth goes dry.

“What?” she says, blinking at him. 

He kisses her soft on the mouth. “You did good today.”

She laughs against his mouth, digging her knuckles against his ribs. “Jesus,” she breathes. “You sound like you’re giving me pointers.”

He grins. “You can’t take a compliment,” he says.

“Please,” she says, pecking him on the mouth. “You’re full of shit. That wasn’t a compliment, that was just you being an ass.”

“I’m thinking of taking a break,” he says, and she pulls back, her mouth slack with surprise that she tries to hide.

She studies his face for a moment. “A break from touring?”

He nods. “I told Mikey already,” he says.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s just…not what I want to be doing right now,” he says.

Her head tilts back in a slight nod. “What do you want to be doing?”

He shrugs and drains the rest of his beer. “This, I guess,” he says. “Writing. Working on something else. You know I don’t like to stay in one thing too long.”

“I know,” she says.

“And music’s more than just going on the road,” he says. “I don’t know. Hirsch wrote an opera, Louis is working on a musical.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You’re going to write _show tunes_?” 

“All right,” he says, as she howls with laughter, “Calm down. I’m just saying…there’s other options.”

“Yeah,” she cracks. “EGOT, baby.”

“Just thinking,” he says. “A break isn’t a bad thing.”

She meets his gaze. “No,” she says, voice going soft. “It isn’t.”

“I already did the touring, the band thing,” he says. “I don’t need to be on stage anymore. Doesn’t mean I can’t still make music.”

“No,” she says. “And maybe if that’s all you do, someone will convince you not to be sending shit on tape anymore.”

He hums and glances up at the stars. She finishes the rest of her drink and climbs into his arms, her body draping over his on the seat. He can feel the softness of her curves against his palms, and he drags his hands along the curve of her spine and kisses the apple of her cheek.

“Getting soft on me, Patterson?” she breathes.

He kisses her in answer.

“Yes?” she says.

His hand smooths her hair away from her face. “I love you,” he says. “Even when you’re being a brat.”

“About your Broadway career?” she says, snickering.

He bites her bottom lip in answer, and her laugh darkens into a soft moan.

“Apologize.”

She grazes her lips over his, barely touching. “Make me.”

  
It’s different in his house.

Different than all of their times in the hotel rooms, than all of the run-ins over the years in their apartments. A house is settled, and there are traces of her everywhere across the rooms and the walls even if there aren’t photos or rings or anything serious. He stretches her out underneath him, her skin glowing and warm, and she sinks into his sheets—flannel, simple, straightforward—and moans his name.

It’s too easy, he thinks, to picture her here for the rest of his life, to imagine her waking up in his bed, surrounded by the trinkets and detritus of his life, backed by the noise of his dogs yelping for food or attention through the door.

He runs a hand through her hair and angles her head back, bites and sucks at her neck, and thinks about leaving a mark. Her breath hitches in her throat, rising thin and delicate, and he steadies his hands against the bed as he speeds up.

She presses him closer, her hands digging into his skin, pushing to leave a mark.

“Luke,” she gasps, hips sinking deep into the bed.

Her nails are sharp against the skin of his back, and he thinks he could wear her forever.

Easily.

  
In the morning, he pads downstairs and finds her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and staring out the window at the sun splashed against the side of the pool. There’s food and water in the dog bowls already, and coffee sitting in the kitchen, toast in the toaster.

He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, burying his head against the crook of her neck.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

She lifts the coffee cup to her mouth and takes a sip. “You brush your teeth?”

“No.”

“Gross,” she says.

He snickers, catching her chin in his hand and turning it towards him for a kiss. She tastes like black coffee.

“Go brush your teeth, bro,” she says.

“Is there breakfast?” 

“For me,” she laughs. “Go!”

He nuzzles his nose against her neck as she bursts into giggles, and kisses her once more for good measure.

“God,” she grunts, with exaggerated irritation, “You’re disgusting.”

He grins, bouncing on his toes towards the bathroom and scratching Oogy behind the ears for good measure. “You love me.”

She turns and leans against the kitchen counter, watching him go. “Yeah,” she says, quietly. “Maybe I do.”

He freezes where he stands, breath hitching in his throat. “Jules?”

Her smile twitches to life, nervous and frantic, but then she’s grinning at him as he rushes to sweep her into his arms.

She bursts into giggles, slapping at his shoulder to chase him towards the bathroom as he kisses her again.

Breakfast is scrambled eggs and white toast and black coffee and sausage, which he ends up flicking in pieces to the floor for the dogs. Breakfast is her climbing into his lap halfway through, and the chair tilting back too far and him falling on his ass with her landing on top of him.

Breakfast is forgotten somewhere between the second slip of her tongue against his and the third, but it isn’t that bad.

He wasn’t that hungry anyway.

  
News of his tour retirement lands with a quiet furor, but he heads back to the studio and starts writing again.

Mikey starts sending demos to some of the top artists in town, and maybe about half of them know who he is, and maybe about half of that are jumping to work with him.

It’s a start, he thinks, having to build yourself up from the bottom.

But it’s a good one.

They work on her next album together—the four of them—in fits and spurts across California and Utah.

He sells his house, and buys one in Thousand Oaks. The dogs can’t tell the difference. They just love the light and the open yard, happy to be eating and running around anywhere. He plants a few lemon trees, and misses his studio and thinks about building another one.

She comes to spend the night, the week, the month.

She leaves a toothbrush, a couple of suitcases. He teaches her how to spool a cassette tape.

They sit in his living room and write music for hours, and he can’t say he regrets too much.

  
After all of the years, she’s still nervous whenever it’s awards season.

She won’t stop fussing with her purse, and he reaches to squeeze her hands, gripping them between his own.

On stage, they watch Haley Joelle give the envelope a dramatic shake as she slides her finger underneath the fold to break the seal.

All night, he’s been listening to her talk about the possibilities. All night, he’s been listening to her rationalize what a win would mean, what a loss would mean, and trying to talk her down from the panic that Amy’s been stirring up all day.

“And the Grammy for Album of the Year goes to…” Haley Joelle croons into the mic. The card slides out easily into her hand. “Julie Molina, _Let Up on the Comedown_.” 

The crowd erupts into applause, and she rises shakily to her feet. He stands with her, pulling her into his arms and squeezing her tight, pressing a quick kiss against her mouth. “Go get your award,” he says. 

A few seats down, Alex and Reggie run over to embrace her, pushing her lightly towards the direction of the stage as the applause quiets down.

She didn’t write a speech this year, and he watches her stand alone in front of the mic, rattling off thank yous and shout-outs for everyone she can remember off the top of her head. “And I want to thank the Phantoms,” she says, breathlessly, “Alex and Reggie and Luke, for being there for all of the good years and the bad years, and for helping me to find my voice again. For agreeing to work with me and write with me on this album, even if you wouldn’t get to play on it. I wouldn’t be here without any of you.” 

He watches her stand strong in the light, lifting the award for the cameras to catch.

“I am so grateful for every day that I get to do what I love,” she says, voice cracking with emotion. “So thank you to the Academy, and to all of the fans and the label. Thank you.”

Alex punches him hard in the shoulder, leaning his weight against him, as they watch her step off towards the wings.

  
After, they pile into Reggie’s old Subaru and head to Denny’s. They’re overdressed and the food is bad, but it’s tradition.

Alex steals his coffee, and Reggie soaks too much of his food in syrup, and he watches them wince their way through their plates, laughing too hard to speak. The waitress asks for selfies, and Reggie pours vodka from a flask into their sodas, and it’s tradition.

Julie orders too much to eat, and eats most of the food on his plate, complaining about how soggy the fries are, how dry the pancakes are. 

“That’s what you get for going to Denny’s,” he says.

She rolls her eyes.

There’s a ring burning a hole in his pocket, and a question on the tip of his tongue, but he leans back in his seat and watches them crack jokes at each other, pushing food around the cheap ceramic plates between bites.

“We have to stop doing this,” Alex groans, leaning back in his seat and patting his stomach. “We are way too old for this.”

Luke laughs, balling up a napkin and flinging it in his direction.

“Unbecoming,” Alex chirps, “for a Grammy-award winning songwriter.”

“Excuse me,” Reggie interrupts. “ _Three_ Grammy-award winning songwriters.”

Julie shakes her head. “You guys are assholes.”

And that’s family.

  
He pops the question in the rear of the parking lot, kneeling against the gravel while Alex and Reggie jump around, hooting and screaming.

Julie laughs, tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to answer the question.

“You can’t do this—you _cannot_ do this in a parking lot,” she says, tackling him to the ground with a kiss. “At Denny’s. Flynn’s going to kill you.”

“Okay,” he says, breathlessly. “So we’ll do it again.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“Okay!” she repeats.

“Congratulations,” he grins, “on your Grammy.”

She punches him in the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “Fuck you,” she says.

“I love you too.”

And then Alex and Reggie lift Julie into their arms, running circles around the car while she screams. 

He rises to his feet and they hoist her into his arms, and then he’s standing in the parking lot, holding her in his arms, as Alex and Reggie howl jokes at them.

“Jesus,” he says, shifting her in his arms.

“Getting too old?” she says, with a sly smile.

He laughs. “Fuck you.”

“Time to go to the gym, old man,” she says, and he lowers her carefully onto her feet.

“Fuck you,” he repeats.

She kisses him sweetly around a laugh. “I love you too.”

Alex and Reggie pelt them with shreds of old paper napkins, banging on the car horn and screaming.

And maybe that’s love.

Or something close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Leonard Cohen song is _Dance Me to the End of Love_.
> 
> I don't actually know that much about the Happy Birthday copyright case. I think it had something to do with the personal estate.
> 
> I've never been to the west coast so--inaccuracies about California and the highway are all me. Sorry!
> 
> And you shouldn't actually carry condoms in your wallet, but whatever.


End file.
